You Can Be Strong and I'll Be Strong Too
by Ruler of the Fake Empire
Summary: Francis had gone to get apples. Not to buy a slave, just apples. He had ended up with both. One party didn't want to be there and refused to speak to him in English and the other was fruit. So they began their complicated relationship between an unwilling servant, and a dedicated and vaguely confused master.
1. Chapter 1

The man moved through the crowds like a shark moved up stream; effortlessly.

He weaved in and out of the mass, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes darting from face to face. He was finely dressed, all pristine and straight, like he was on his way to somewhere important and too flashy for his nature, which he wasn't. He had come to buy apples.

He drew his hat further over his face and walked towards the market.

His eyes were pale blue like flowers and his hair was fine like spun gold and he walked like his every footstep echoed somewhere where they mattered. He wore a white three-piece suit and acted like he was some sort of god among men, a sun among the stars, all winking eyes and sly little smiles. And none of them blinked at him, or betrayed him; they barely even looked him in the eye. He allowed them not to.

His shoes tapped the cobblestone walkway, echoing in his ears and carriages rode past, the horses' hooves clopping against the stone like rocks being dropped from a great height and failing to bounce.

The sky was blue and the sun shone down on him, high drying the puddles left by the rain the night before, and making every surface shine. The air was still filled with the moisture from the rain, thick and sweet. A bird flapped from one building to another, and he watched it and, bobbing around on the rooftop, it looked back.

The market wasn't particularly big, just large enough for it to keep going, not like the main markets, where the majority of people went. It was kept alive mostly by the slave driver, down from the south and the farmers that came with him. It was a collection of battered tents and stalls selling second-class ingredients the second-class and first class slaves to the first class. It was just the way things worked.

"Now this one," the auctioneer called from his stage, "this one's special!"

He stood upon the theatre stage with a chain in his hands and a group of shivering men and women standing in a cage off to the side. The man in white didn't pass him a glance and simply continued on to the stall with the apples. What could he say? He'd just woken up that morning with a craving.

"A magic user, oh yes!" The Auctioneer continued loudly, "Not only is he in prime condition, you'll have plates levitating around your house in no time!" The man in white couldn't fault in his enthusiasm, but there hadn't been a magic user in decades, they'd died out, there weren't anymore. Probably just something to help him sell whoever it was that he was trying to sell.

He rolled his eyes.

He handed over a few coins for the bag of apples to the merchant, and as he turned around he caught a brief glance of the auction taking place. He blinked, uncertain to what he was seeing.

The boy wasn't like the others standing there. They were all hunched over, their shoulder's nearly up to their ears, all frail eyes and bones and fear. But the boy was different, the acclaimed magic user. He stood straight and bold, his mouth set in a straight, thin line, and his eyes glaring fiercely at anyone who dared looked at him.

He wasn't very big, but thin and small, his dirty hair went in all directions and his eyes were the sort of green that you could pinpoint in a crowd no matter where you were. He was grubby, muddy, and bruised and beaten and so much for 'in prime condition'. He looked like he had been through hell, but he stood like a sentinel, despite the fact that his hands were chained together, and there was a collar around his neck. The man could see the bruises where his fingers must've clawed at it.

"20 pounds!" Someone yelled from the crowd, an older man, the man in white recognized him.

Something in the man shifted and he wondered fleetingly if he had enough money, which of course he did. He was in a near permanent state of enough money. He stood paused, just outside the circle of the crowd, with his bag of apples and his suit.

He exhaled.

"25 pounds!" He followed up, raising his hand as the auctioneer attempted to barter and tempt the crowd. He stepped into the group of people, wanting to get a better look at the boy with the collar around his neck. The boy glared at him and he smiled back. The older gentleman sent him a look.

"30 pounds!"

Great, now they were just going up by fives. Wonderful, this was going to work really well. He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply.

"50 pounds," now that was a small fortune, but nothing to him. Nothing at all. He just wanted to get it over quickly. For a split second the boy looked a little dismayed and then it was gone, his real expression slipping back under his enraged mask. The older gentleman glared at him something fierce, something mad.

"Going once!" Taunted the auctioneer, fighting to keep the pleased grin from his face. "Going twice!" He continued, the grip on the young man's chain tightening.

"And sold, to the man in white!" The Auctioneer beckoned him towards the stage, towards the steps that led up to him and his bounty. He ducked through the crowd, digging through his pockets for the money, still having enough for a taxi ride home. The Auctioneer tugged the boy to the edge of the stage where the steps met the floor, holding tightly onto his chain as if he thought that the boy might run, and from the look in his dart eyes, he just might.

The man in white waited for them at the bottom of the stairs and the Auctioneer didn't ask for his name and he didn't give it, he just handed over the money and was passed the chain in return.

"Thank you," he nodded to the collar around the boy's neck, ignoring the glare while the Auctioneer went through his pockets for the keys, "what's that for?"

None of the others had collars.

The Auctioneer's eyes flickered to him and he adjusted his hat.

"It keeps his magic suppressed, had to get it cursed and everything."

The man looked at him doubtfully as he was handed two keys, one for the chains and one for the collar, he presumed.

"You really believe in that stuff?"

The auctioneer sneered at him, no longer keeping up appearances, not after the sale had been made.

"He killed three of my men and turned a fourth into a snake, of course I believe in it." Then he turned and stomped back up the stairs and the man in white turned to the boy.

"Well then," he said respectfully, "I'd appreciate it if I could remain in my human form, thank you." The boy's lip curled at him and he took that as a response. "Come along then."

He tugged the boy through the crowd towards the road. He didn't feel like walking any longer.

The boy didn't make any moves, didn't run or scream for help, he just glared, his lips pressed together and his expression firm and tight. Perhaps he knew that he wouldn't be able to get away. The man was bigger than him and could probably run faster too. And he knew the streets better, not to mention he was in chains. He could do nothing, but wait for the right moment to catch him unawares, which the man was sure he was.

It made him grip the chain even tighter.

Somehow he managed to flag down an empty taxi and bundle the boy inside, managing just barely to stop him from darting out the other side. The boy gave him a look of utter contempt and he attempted a smile in return. He told the taxi driver his address and turned back to the boy, digging into his bag of apples and offering one to the boy, being as nice as he could.

The boy's eyes darted between the red apple and him, considering his options.

"It's an apple," the man said helpfully, "you can't poison an apple." The boy narrowed his eyes in vague annoyance and reached forward, his shackled hands going forth together. He moved very slowly, watching the man in white's every move, calculating every thought. And when he had it he drew it to his mouth and took a careful bite, his eyes never leaving the man in white's. Some juice slipped down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"What's your name?" He asked, hoping he'd established trust. The boy didn't respond, he only continued to methodically eat his apple, staring at him. The man pushed his eyebrows together. "You do… _have_ a name, don't you?"

The boy rolled his eyes as if he was stupid and took another bite of his apple.

Most people would be scared in this type of situation, but the boy wasn't, he was just… pissed off.

"My name's Francis," the man named Francis held out his hand, offering it to the nameless, voiceless boy. The boy gave it a long look and decided it wasn't for him, opting instead to just look out the window at the streets going slowly by, eating his apple. Francis awkwardly retook his hand and wiped it on his pants. He could practically hear his tailor scolding him.

It didn't take long for them to reach his home, as it wasn't that far from the market. His house was neither large nor small, but instead just perfect sized, tucked just outside of the city, where he could have a garden and room to breath. It wasn't as big as he could afford, but he didn't need any more than he had. He didn't like people to know he had as much money as he did; it made him too susceptible to robbery.

The house was painted blue and the garden was filled with flowers that he couldn't name, but liked, and the veranda had chairs sitting on it, and he liked it just the way that it was. His father didn't, but his father liked very few things. Including him.

He tugged the boy out of the carriage and the boy let him, knowing that he couldn't run just yet, but he would get there eventually. Francis could see it in his eyes; he was getting ready to bolt, formulating plans and theories.

They walked up the garden path, towards the front door and the boy lagged, looking around, for a escape route, or perhaps just out of curiosity. His eyes skipped from plant to plant, smelling the air, like he could detect something that Francis couldn't. Some invisible threat.

He wondered if he really was a magic user, a rare breed. God, he hoped not. If anyone caught on that he had a real life magic user in his home the boy would be taken from him and dissected before he could blink.

He opened the door to his house, slipping off his shoes by the door, he would've told the boy to do the same if he had owned shoes. Inside the house was neat and clean, with a hardwood floor and a homely smell. They padded down the hallway together.

"I'm home," he called, turning into the kitchen, where Elizabeta stood at the stove, making some soup for lunch. Elizabeta lived with him three and a half days of every week, and the rest at a man named Roderich's house, looking after his adopted boys.

She turned around to smile at him, but stopped as soon as she saw the boy trailing after him and the chain in his hand. She went pale and looked at him in dismay.

"You just went out to get apples," she said in a distressed voice.

"And I did." He said, putting the bag on the table. "I just also happened to get something else."

She frowned at him, and he could tell she was rethinking her employment.

"I thought you disagreed with that sort of thing?" Obviously she did and wanted him to as well.

"I do," he answered simply, the boy standing confusedly as far away from them as he could. "But he was going to be sold to Ivan's father, I couldn't have that." Ivan's father, a man named Winter, was notoriously cruel to his servants, usually beating them to death before the end of a year.

The statement wasn't strictly true. Sure, he had felt sorry for the boy, he had felt sorry for all of them, standing up there, but he had also just wanted to talk to the boy. Ask him what he was doing there, and why he was so defiant when everyone else was scared. He had simply appeared to be the sort of person that Francis would want to know.

"Oh," Elizabeta said, and feeling a little conflicted turned back to her soup, leaving the boy with only a lingering, half-worried glance. He could tell that they were going to have a long conversation later that night about the special place in hell for slavers.

But before that happened Francis beckoned the boy to come closer to him, leaning against the table with the apples. With his chin raised high, the boy regarded him coldly and the man in white rolled his eyes.

"Oh, calm down, I'm just going to take off your chains." He dangled the key between two fingers and after a pause the boy held out his chained hands, expecting them to be undone. The man, as gently as he could, took the boy's hands, soft like silk as they were, and inserted the key into the keyhole.

"Now, before I take these off, I just think you ought to know that all the windows and doors are locked, and I'm the only one with a key. So I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't make a fuss or break anything, okay?" The boy nodded silently. "There we go mon cher, we have an agreement." He said lightly, turning the key as he spoke and removing each cuff.

The boy rubbed his bruised wrists and Francis felt a little bad.

"Elizabeta," he addressed. Elizabeta turned cautiously around.

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you get our new guest into the bath and into some of my old clothes? I'll finish with the soup." Francis smiled at her and she smiled back. Still holding the boys velvet hands, he turned and looked the boy in the eyes, focusing all his attention on him.

"Now," he continued, "this is my maid, Elizabeta. And you'll want to be treating her kindly, because she feeds us and will treat you kindly in return. No biting, you hear me?" The boy was looking at him like he was an idiot again, that happened a lot it seemed. He took it as an agreement.

Elizabeta patted the boy's shoulder in greeting and he flinched and they pretended not to notice.

"Come along Sweetie," she said instead, "Up the stairs now."

He allowed her to command him and scratched at his steel collar.

If the situation was different then he would have let the boy go. He would hope he would return, but he would have let him go either way. But unfortunately, the slavery ring was very seriously upheld. You could beat a slave, kill a slave, refuse to feed a slave, but you could not let one go. Or resell one. Or abandon one. The only way you could get rid of one was through death. Or else the slave would be ruthlessly tracked down, and killed, and you would be sent to prison. And he didn't like prison, no matter how rich he was. The rules were as they were to try and wean slavery off the black market, make it only an official thing.

Inevitably, the boy was his until one of them died, whether he liked it or not.

It struck him what a decision he had made. A lifetime decision. The decision that would go on until he was dead.

He suddenly felt like he had underestimated the situation.

…

He was certainly a fierce little boy, seventeen or eighteen maybe, all filled with rage and fear. She scrubbed through his muddy hair and he let her. She got the distinct impression that everything she did in relation to him, he was letting her do. Nothing more. He was in control.

His shoulders were thin, and but he could see malnourished muscles under the skin of his arms, small, but strong, she concluded. He was a lean person, a lion trapped inside the skin of fearing little boy. She felt sorry for him. Him and his bruised ribs and his collar.

She wondered what it was doing there as she rubbed the soup through his hair, stealing the dirt from his scalp. The master had taken off his cuffs, but not his collar, even though it wasn't connect to anything. She stored it in the back of his mind to ask him.

The boy rubbed a cloth against his muddy feet like she had asked him to do, scrubbing at his toes and making the water brown. Silently she reached down and filled a jug with water to pour over his hair.

"One, two, three."

She poured the water over his head, washing away the dislodged dirt and the soap. She did it a few more times and the boy allowed her to do so, silent and waiting. She babbled to him lightheartedly, trying to pretend she didn't feel his misery through the water.

"I think you'll like it here," she said, as he scrubbed his legs, he didn't respond so she continued. "The master is a kind man. Flirtatious in the beginning, but I think that that's just how he gets comfortable with people." She moved carelessly around the large bathroom, picking things up and putting them back down again. He looked over his shoulder at her, a doubtful look on his face.

He had heard kind words before, but it didn't matter what they said. They all wanted the same thing in the end. The women were usually nicer than the men, but they all just wanted something to enact their power upon, someone to make them feel like they were in charge. He highly doubted that the man in white who called himself Francis was any different. He had trusted before and he had been chained to a wall, he would not make the same mistake again.

For the time being though, he simply took advantage of the luxuries he had while he had them, scrubbing over his scars and scrapes and bruises. He was sure that she noticed his wounds, but she didn't mention them. He would've been horrified if she had.

When he was asked to step out of the bath he was glad to be clean, to be stripped of his layer of dirt and watch it roll down the drain, leaving him bare, and stronger. The woman who was the man in white's maid sat him down on the closed toilet, wrapped in a fluffy white towel and dried his hair with a separate towel. They had a whole cupboard full of them. He had no idea what they did with all of them. What do you do with seventeen towels?

While he pondered about the seventeen towels the woman continued to babble to him, about liking it there, about her, about what he needed to know. He couldn't concentrate. He'd been through so much that day, and all the days before. He was so tired, and so warm, warmer than he had been in what felt like years, and he just wanted to curl into a ball and sleep.

There was a knock at the door and both he and the woman looked up.

"Elizabeta, the soup is ready," the man in white called through the door.

"We'll be right there," she called in return, and they listened to his footsteps fade away.

And then the woman put him undergarments that were too big, and pants that were too big, and a white shirt that was too big, and she pushed his hair away from his eyes, clutching his cheeks.

"Look at you," she addressed, "all presentable and clean." She smiled sadly and ushered him down the steps, towards the dining room, where the man in white was preparing the table. He was laying out bowels and spoons and napkins, a steaming pot in the middle of the table. He smelt the air and he could detect every ingredient.

His mouth watered. When was the last time he had hot food?

The woman called Elizabeta sat him down next to the man in white, who was still dressed in white, but had shed his coat. He sat at one head of the table, and the woman sat at the other, the boy sat in the middle with his hands twisted in his lap.

He scratched at his collar.

The man in white served him some of the soup, served the woman, and then served himself and they sat down together, the woman and the man beginning to eat.

"Still not talking?" Francis asked, and the woman across from him shook her head sadly.

"Not a word, I'm not even sure he knows the language." She raised the spoon to her mouth.

The man in white shook his head in return.

"No, he knows it. He glares at me when I say anything stupid."

The boy glared at him and Francis noticed that he wasn't eating. He gestured to the steaming soup and the bread sitting beside it.

"Well, eat up," he said, knowing that he would be hungry. The boy looked at him doubtfully and he sighed. "Admittedly, you can poison soup, but if I was going to poison you, I'd also be poisoning me, and that just wouldn't work."

 _"_ _Nid wyf yn credu ei fod yn ddrwg Dyna syniad o," I don't think it would be that bad of an idea._

Notes:

For the record, Arthur was speaking Irish. Don't know why I need to mention that, but I do.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis stood out side the bathroom door, feeling kind of guilty and leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest and his head leant back so that he could stare at his ceiling and wonder what he had done to deserve this. He'd bought a slave, he reasoned, that was pretty bad, but he had had good intentions about it. Surely that meant the universe had to cut him some slack.

Apparently not.

Elizabeta emerged from the bathroom, not giving him even a glance inside, perhaps protecting what little pride the boy had left.

During lunch, while they had all been eating, even the boy, who still hadn't spoken since his Irish mutter, the boy had very suddenly gone very pale, covered his mouth and darted away from them, towards the stairs like a jack rabbit. Of course Francis had assumed that he had been trying to escape so he had darted after him and tackled him on the stairs, his arms around the boy's skinny legs.

The boy had immediately upon this kicked him in the face and continued skittishly darting up to the bathroom, where he promptly threw up into the toilet.

And then he felt a little bad.

Elizabeta looked him hard in the eye and he began to reconsider his position in her care.

"Is he okay?" He asked tentatively, still somewhere in the middle of feeling sorry for himself. He couldn't figure out what he had done wrong, where his fault was. He was a good cook, lots of people told him so, and the meat had all been cooked properly, and the boy probably thought that he really had poisoned him. He threw himself back into self-pity.

"He threw up his lunch," Elizabeta said with a frown, her fingers knitted together in front of her stomach. Elizabeta was a good person, beautiful, and gracious, and caring, and motherly and she took care of him even when he didn't deserve it, even when he brought home broken little boys. Her hair was long, and she was slender, and her dark green eyes bore into his. "And that apple you gave him," she added.

He nodded as if he knew why that was important.

"Don't worry, sir," she said with a small, uncertain smile, "it wasn't your food that made him sick. Well, it was, but it wasn't your fault. His body just wasn't used to the food. He probably hasn't had meat in months."

"So that means…" he looked at her strangely.

"It means that he's going to need to eat a lot of oatmeal and he's currently brushing his teeth."

…

When they reentered the bathroom, after a few moments, they found the boy curled up on the floor, where he had decidedly set up shop. He had gotten all the towels out of the cupboard and laid them out on the floor like a little fluffy nest. And his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep, asleep like the dead.

Francis sighed when he saw him, this was going to be complicated, he realized. He had not thought this plan through. He had adopted an icy, but beautiful boy who hated him and refused to speak and was probably plotting his doom and he really didn't know what to do about it. He was too tiny, and so fragile, and so strong willed. And he was so convinced that he needed to hate in order to survive, so assured that everyone was out to get him. He had been treated so badly by his people, that there had to be no other option.

And Francis was kind. He would not make him work, or beat him, or punish him. He'd feed him and clothe him, and keep him safe as best he could, no matter what he did. He wasn't villainous enough to be the villain the boy needed.

So he reached down and picked up the boy who was wearing his clothes and smelt like peppermint toothpaste and turned to his maid.

"Can you pick up the towels?" Elizabeta pursed her lips at him and nodded tightly. The boy curled into him, still sleeping, not knowing that it was him who was doing the holding. He wouldn't curl into him if he knew it was him.

That was a sad thought. He pushed it away.

Silently he carried the boy out of the room and down the corridor. He was lucky he had a guest room. It was right next to his. Elizabeta slept down stairs in the half vacant servants quarters.

The room wasn't particularly big, but not actually small. At its center was a bed, and a bedside table and a wardrobe with no clothes in it, and it was exactly like a bedroom should be. It had been designed for his mother, so that she would be able to live with him while she was ill, and he would be able to care for her the way that this father couldn't.

She died before she could move in.

And now, here he was. With a scarred, scared, acclaimed magic user, whom he legally owned asleep in his arms. He sighed and laid the boy down, dragging the blankets out from under him and covering him with them, to keep him warm and safe. And then he adjusted his hair out of his eyes, and went around the room, removing anything sharp or could be used as a weapon.

On the far wall, next to the window, was a painting of his childhood house, in the French countryside. Joan, his sister, had painted it, right before she died; she had dragged him out there for a whole week, just to paint it. And he had kept it since then. She had always been a better painter than he was.

He paused in front of it for a moment and smiled.

It would be fine.

Whatever was going to happen, no matter how difficult the next few weeks were going to, it would be fine in the end.

He dearly hoped that it would be fine.

Carefully, he came and stood next to the bed, after checking that the window was locked, and stared at the sleeping boy. He was so small and yet so defiant. His hope for a better life had not as yet been beaten from his mind. People had been ruined for him, all of them, even he, but he still hoped for a better life, he still thought that it was possible for him.

And Francis hoped that it would be with him.

He sighed again, and as quietly as he could he exited the room, making a point of not locking the door. The boy could go within the house where he liked, just not out, unless Francis was with him. Or something like that, he really hadn't thought it through.

And when he came out, Elizabeta was waiting for him, her eyes meeting his without a beat missing. He could tell she had something to say and he immediately wanted to run away. He didn't have the mental capacity to deal with whatever it was. He wondered if backing back into the room with the boy would be appropriate. From the look in her eye, he could only guess that it wasn't.

Then again Elizabeta was his friend and they hardly had a normal employer/employee relationship. Maybe she was going to tell him that he was a good person. He really needed someone to remind him of that, because he didn't feel like a good person. The boy didn't look at him like he was a good person.

"Sir, might I speak out of turn?"

He nodded stiffly, knowing that she would only ask him again until he said yes.

She took a step towards him and he took a back. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he widened his at her.

He held his breath.

"Just so you know," he voice sliced through him like a blade, "if you lay one hand on that boy, good intentioned or otherwise, take advantage in any way, or use him for your own devices, so help me god," her eyes narrowed further, "I will tell everyone you know about you're little…"guests in the night."" He gulped. The city where he stayed were almost as horrid to men who flavored men as they were to slaves.

He cringed.

Horrified.

Embarrassed.

Both.

Possibly more than he had ever been horrified or embarrassed in his entire life.

And Elizabeta only smiled and walked away, leaving him there with his stomach somewhere around his ankles and his heart forcing it's way into the opposite direction. Was this the soft caress of friendship? He really did doubt it.

So he scuttled quickly off into his room and refused to look the portrait of his mother in the hallway in the eye.

…

She walked slowly up the stairs, one step after another, her hand gliding up the polished rail. The master had requested that she awaken their newest arrival, or at least to invite him to breakfast. Her eyes were half open and distant.

Anxiousness was set heavy on her mind. Today was her last day for the week, she had served her three days and she would have to leave for Roderich's soon, where she would look after a different set of boys.

What she was worried about though were the boys in this house. At least she knew that Roderich and Feli and Lud could look after themselves and two out of those three names were three years old. So that was saying something.

Francis too easily thought that he was trusted and the boy was too distrustful. They were bound to clash, which was bound to lead to only more distrust and they didn't know how to look after each other.

She opened the door, and quick as a whip the boy darted form the bed, and down behind it. Elizaveta almost hadn't seen him, silent as the grave that boy.

She rounded at the bed with her hands on her hips. She looked down at him crouched on the floor.

She raised one of her eyebrows, and he stared blankly at her.

"Spry little bugger, aren't you?" She smiled and he scowled, still crouched on the floor. "The master wants to know if you'll be joining us for breakfast." The boy looked at her as if he didn't think that was too good of an idea. She wasn't surprised, what with what had happened the last time he had eaten with them. She smiled again. "Don't worry, I made your food this time, something your tummy can handle."

She offered him her hand, not touching him without his permission. His eyes darted between her hand and her smiling face. Not quite trusting, but not hostile either. After a moment he reached towards her, taking her hand in his and allowing her to pull him up. She noticed the grazes on his knuckles. Little fighting boy, fighting for his body.

"There we go," she congratulated him, "One day we'll even get you to talk."

He didn't respond and instead of pestering him to speak for her she lead him down the stairs and into the kitchen. She had to admit, she liked the boy, whoever he was. He was silent, and curious, and he thought through ever little action he made, meticulously, like it mattered.

She hoped, one day, they might even get to have a conversation.

When they arrived in the kitchen the master was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and drinking a coffee. He looked up at their arrival, and the boy gave him a severe look. He smiled in return.

"Good morning, mon lapin," he said only.

…

And then when Elizabeta left they found a note pinned to one of the cupboards and the note read:

 _Rules of House_

 _Sweet one:_

 _1._ _Don't break anything_

 _2._ _Don't hurt your self or others_

 _3._ _Remember, what ever he's trying to do, it's not hurt you_

 _4._ _If you want, make some tea, there are biscuits in the cupboard and the kettle is under the sink_

 _Sir:_

 _1._ _Don't overstep boundaries_

 _2._ _Remember to communicate_

 _3._ _Remember our little chat (threat still stands)_

 _4._ _Take. Off. His. Collar._

They turned to each other and the boy gave him the sort of expression that said 'well, she's _your_ maid.'

…

And for the rest of the day they were both mostly silent. Francis kept finding half drunk cups of tea in the strangest places, on the window sill, on top of one of the cupboards, on the pillow in his mother's room, like four in his study, where the boy eventually settled and claimed as his own. He seemed not to care that the large, brown leather desk chair he sat in was not his own, or the desk he sat at, or the papers he shuffled through.

And when Francis shuffled in to find him there he dared him with his eyes to tell him to move. Which, inevitably he didn't. He allowed the boy to go through his things, through his draws and papers. Investigating, finding out what he did, how well he did it, find out where he was from, trying to figure out who he was playing ball with. Francis sat in the armchair by the window, surrendering his space to the boy sitting at his desk, who also refused to leave. They wouldn't allow themselves to be scared off by each other and that left them together, silent and wary.

Francis read a large book on the history of northern slavery and the boy read everything else. He had inherited both his mother's and his sister's united collection of books, many of them in languages that he didn't know or understand, some he didn't even recognize as languages, and they seemed to make the boy happy, as he sat at his newly appointed desk, and scratched at his collar.

And they didn't speak to each other, except for when Francis looked up from his book, and looked directly at the boy, who continued to read and said:

"My name is Francis Lucius Bonnefoy."

And the boy had looked up at him, and after a moment had said:

"My name is Arthur."

And then he looked back down and continued to read.

And it felt like something had happened, but neither of them mentioned it.


	3. Chapter 3

For two days precisely they existed around each other.

The boy called Arthur didn't speak to him very much, and when he did it was in short curt sentences and languages he didn't understand. He slept in the spare room, and dominated the study, sitting at the desk to read and wait, poised for deciding action.

Francis had taken a few days off work to try and throw up some ground rules before Elizabeta came back, so that he could prove he could take care of the boy. The issue was whenever he opened his mouth to speak, usually sitting in the armchair by the window, he would be unable to say anything at all, and when he could he would end up asking the boy if he would like some more tea, or a biscuit, or to pointlessly ask what he would want for the following meal.

He very rarely got a verbal response.

Francis would cook all their meals and the boy would sleep and read and sleep, and his bruises had begun to fade. He made the boy lots of oatmeal and other soft things, and the boy ate them and refused to speak to him no matter how much he prompted him to do so.

The only other person that had seen Arthur, other than him and Elizabeta, was the tailor, a tall man called Alexander Spears, who Francis had called to come at take measurements, so that he could make a proper suit for Arthur, and tell Francis his sizes so that he could buy him some real clothes. For the most part the boy just loafed about in Francis' old clothes, reading books, and glaring.

He wouldn't let Francis touch him, or talk to him; he flinched every time he came close, and he was always scared. Francis would hear him having nightmares in the room next to his at night and he would have to get up and slam doors around the house. Sometimes he would even pretend to be to do some late night cooking, just to wake him wake up, without the courage to go into his room or comfort him. Highly doubting that he was welcome.

Once the boy even padded down the stairs and watched him cook, leaning his head down on the bench, gazing at him with his big sad eyes, making chicken soup in the dead of night. He sat at the table and stared at him, shaken, worried, and numb, he scratched at his collar.

Francis hadn't taken it off yet, even though it was one of his house rules. It had taken him only two nights of their living together to confirm that he was a magic user. He could feel it in the way he walked and the way he read and the way he always seemed to be seeing something nobody else could see out of the corner of his eye, and the way he lifted his nose to sniff the air.

And Francis wasn't entirely sure that Arthur wouldn't just kill him in his sleep, at least physically Francis could overpower him. He liked being in control, he didn't trust Arthur, and Arthur didn't trust him in return. They just skirted around each other nervously, trying to figure each other out.

And Arthur found out more about him than Francis did about Arthur.

He learnt things like the fact that Arthur liked apple with his oatmeal more than he liked banana. And he approved of his books and his gardens, and he knew more languages than Francis could count on two hands. He liked to sit at the desk, and drink tea. And he went to bed late and got up when he pleased.

And he didn't trust Francis.

He actually highly doubted that Arthur even liked him, would allow himself to like him. And in many ways, Francis couldn't blame him for that. He didn't know what had happened to him, how badly he had been treated.

The people up north were a kind and old people; they were peaceful. And the slavers who went up there weren't an invasion force; they were farmers, slaughtering this coherent, intelligent, advanced cattle. They didn't see them as people; they didn't see their intelligence, their far advanced medicines, or machines. The only things that the northern people didn't invent were weapons, they had no need for them, and his people had assumed that that meant they were free for the taking.

Francis had heard stories of slaves not even surviving the journey, the surviving few left to die at the hand of an ignorant owner. He heard of the slavers and their unconquerable cruelty, keeping slaves in cages packed to the bars to sleep, and making them walk for days on end with no food or water or breaks. Their vicious beatings, torture even, starvation, rape.

It made him sick at the thought.

That his boy, his broken boy, had been treated with such… _sadism_. It filled him with disgust and shame. And horror.

And the boy didn't talk to him about it, he didn't talk to him about anything, about the scabs on his knuckles, or the way he had a very slight limp, or the way that Francis could see the faded bruises of someone's hand on his arm.

At best, he told him to piss off while he read his books.

Inevitably neither of them got to choose what they represented. Francis was a representation of rich ignorance. Arthur represented fearful savagery. And neither were what they wanted to be or even what they were.

"Arthur," he called through the house on the third morning. "Mon Lapin." He found the boy in the sunroom, staring out at the garden. He turned to the older man as he came in, hastily wiping his eyes.

Francis pretended not to notice.

"I'm going to go out now," he said tentatively, averting his eyes. Something told him that the boy didn't want to be looked at while he was in such a state. "To get you some clothes, and anything else you might like." He looked at him hopefully, "I'll buy you anything you want." They boy curled his lip at him in anxious disdain and turned back to the window, out at the garden with the flowers.

"Or you could come with me…"

The boy looked over his shoulder at him, eyes narrowed, skeptical. Like he seriously doubted Francis was being as serious as he claimed.

"Of course we'd have to have some pretty serious ground rules and stuff. If you run away, we'd both be screwed."

The boy knew the rules, he had no doubt read the same book that Francis had; they were the reason he hadn't bolted yet. He was waiting for a moment to steal the key, and steal himself away. As far as he could run.

Francis held up what he wanted, the key to his collar, tied to a piece of string, the boy's eyes widened, calculating the risks of just leaping for it now.

"No, now isn't the moment. I'm too aware. You have to catch me when my guard is down," he reprimanded lightly, Arthur glared at him. "But as long as I have this around my neck, it's probably best we stick together, yes?" The boy stared at him as he put the string over his head and tucked the key under his shirt.

"Now," he straightened and tried to look like he had everything under control, which he didn't, "would you like to come to the shops with me?" The boy ran his tongue over his front teeth, considering the offer. And then he gave a quick, curt nod, and turned back to the window.

And like when he had been given the name, he felt like he had accomplished something.

…

They sat in the carriage together, across from each other this time, Arthur peering cautiously out the window at the streets that moved on by, he was pretending not to be happy. Francis could see it in his eyes, he wanted to be out and about, but he couldn't let the person he needed to hate know that. He didn't mention it, and instead continued to take notes.

"So what do you think you'll be needing? You can have anything you like." The boy turned to the man in white. "And before you answer in an obscure foreign language, could I put a request in for French?" At least he could understand French.

Arthur frowned at him.

 _"_ _Je ne sais pas comment parler français._ _"_ _I don't know how to speak French._ He answered. In French. Francis rasied his eyebrows and nodded.

"Right then. Shoes? Will you need shoes?"

 _"_ _Ja." Yes._ The boy answered, looking back out the window. Francis noted it down in his notepad under the title _'Things for Lapin'_.

"And I suppose we'll need to get you some clothes that aren't mine. And we'll get you some of your own things, like a toothbrush."

The boy nodded, still not looking at him.

 _"_ _Si." Yes._

Francis looked up at the boy for a moment, briefly giving up.

"So, you're fine with speaking to me as long as I can't tell what your saying?"

The boy didn't respond.

It was going to be a long trip.

….

Unless, it wasn't.

For the most part the boy was silent, and compliant, and, at least, found himself more comfortable close to Francis than he was next to the strangers. He didn't stand obnoxiously close to him, or even close enough for it to be friendly, but just enough to say to the world 'I'm with him'. And Francis allowed him to do so, feeling, just a little bit, proud. Flattered.

Arthur trailed after him, and Francis brought him things. Important things, lots of things, he supposed if he just spent enough money on him, the boy would get the message that he didn't want to hurt him. It wasn't working, so he just brought more things, and Arthur went with him, looking vaguely interested in everything, but also sort of skittish. Like if he heard a loud sound or anyone came within five feet of him he was going to loose his shit.

The only time that the boy asked him for anything was when he reached forward from behind him and tugged on the back of his shirt sleeve, the first time he had ever touched him voluntarily. And when he turned around he had to force himself to remember Elizabeta's threat, because the boy was doing that thing with his eyes where they were beautiful, and his face was all sculptured and pretty and he had needed to compose himself for a moment.

The boy pointed to their right and he distracted himself by looking as commanded. There was a small display of charcoal pencils in from morocco, and sketchbooks from Italy, he turned back to the boy with the beautiful eyes.

"You want some pencils?" he asked.

 _"_ _Vous avez dit que je pouvais avoir ce que je veux._ _"_ _You said I could have anything I like._ Francis raised his eyebrows, and grinned, coming very close to slapping the boy on the shoulder in congratulations like he would someone else. Somehow he knew the boy wasn't up for being touched by him just yet. _"_ _Oh la la,_ _qui est la plus longue peine que vous avez jamais dit à moi, nous allons vous achetez des crayons._ _"_ _Wow, that's the longest sentence you've ever said to me, let's buy you some pencils._ And he did, and a sketchbook, and a paintbrush, for some reason. He of course, had all of Joan's art supplies in his attic, but… they were meant to be focusing on Arthur's issues, not his. And those art supplies brought out all his subjects of concern. It just wasn't the time. So he would buy the boy new ones, because artists haunted him, they just kept popping up and not leaving until he got attached. … "Arthur?" He called through the door with a knock, "wake up now. I need to speak to you." There were a few shuffles behind the door, a faint yawn, a crash, and then the door to the spare room opened and Arthur stood before him, squinting irritably. He was dressed in the silk pyjamas that Francis had bought him the day before, and he had slightly overestimated his size, as the sleeves descended beyond the palm of his hand, and the pant legs sat trapped beneath his heels. Arthur glared at him and rubbed his left eye. Francis swallowed thickly, and gestured down the hall. With a sneer in his direction the boy stepped out of his room and padded down the hallway. Francis was dressed in one of his suits, all pristine and straight and freshly ironed. Usually when he was home, he just wore pants and a dress shirt, not anything as flashy as what he was wearing now. Arthur was pretty sure that his tie cost more than half the house. He rolled his eyes as Francis walked beside him. The man who had returned to white vexed him. He just didn't get it. He was kind, sure, he was kind, and generous, and a good cook. But he was also irritating, and didn't know how to just sit silently, and Arthur couldn't help but think that surely, surely this face was just a charade, something to build him up and then crash him back down. Ruin him again. Do exactly what all the men from here did. Beat him, hurt him, and hold him down. It had to be. But the man was so kind. And more than that, he was cautious. He didn't want to hurt him; he acted like he didn't want to hurt him. Even scare him seemed to horrify the man. And it vexed him. Horribly. "I have to go to work today," the man in white began, as they stepped down the stairs. Arthur followed him into the kitchen. "I made you some breakfast, and there's a lunch in the cupboard for you." He was nervous, Arthur could tell. He didn't want to leave him alone. That was logical at least. Arthur waited for him to say something more. The man in white buttoned and then unbuttoned his coat. "I'll be home around five, and if you're going to go through my things, I would appreciate it if you put them all back where you found them." Arthur was totally going to go through all his things. He folded his arms across his skinny chest. "Elizabeta can't come today because one of the boys she looks after when she's not here has chicken pox, but she'll be here by tomorrow afternoon." He was beginning to shuffle around the kitchen, grabbing his bag, and tying up his hair in a ribbon. He looked better with it up, the boy noticed. That wasn't the point. He began heading towards the door, and Arthur trailed vaguely after him. He opened the door, and the boy stared at him with his half open eyes, deeply unimpressed. "For the record," the man in white said before he walked through the door and out into the street, "I still have the key," he showed it to him to prove it, "and please don't ruin my house, or destroy anything." The boy nodded sleepily. Francis tucked the string back under his shirt and tightened his tie. "If anyone comes to the door don't answer it, and if anyone calls, don't answer it, and if anything happe-" Arthur shut the door on him and went to have his breakfast. He was so tired of being vexed. 


	4. Chapter 4

When the man came back, holding his coat and his bag and hoping that all of his valuables were exactly he had left them, and all his mirrors went un-smashed, the boy was sitting at his desk with a book on Russian poetry, and the worst he had done was drink all of the good whiskey and take a bath. And other than that he had simply done everything he did when Francis was there. Only he was in a better mood about it.

Francis had circled the house, retrieving the day's scattered, half-drunk cups of tea, and he only found Arthur when he entered the study, where the boy had failed to respond to his calls, as always. He would have thought that something had happened if he had, and probably panicked. He leant on the doorway when he saw him, sitting at his desk with his books and his tea, indifferent to his situation and the sunlight streaming in through the window.

"Good afternoon, mon cher," Arthur didn't even look up to glare at him, he only turned a page. "Did anyone come to the door?" He didn't expect so and the boy shook his head, still not looking up. "Anyone call?" The boy nodded. "Did you answer?" And then a shake.

He sighed, and rubbed his forehead with his hand.

"I don't want to cook tonight," he said, holding his bag. The boy looked up at him, finally, only at the mention of food. "So I brought some bread on the way home, and some meat. We can have sandwiches, if that's okay with you?" The boy nodded, and set down his book, following him out of the room when Francis turned towards the kitchen.

"You know, I think we're getting along better." The boy had sneered at him then as he put on the kettle.

...

And they ate dinner together, like they always did; Francis with a glass of red wine, the boy with a glass of water, in vague, meditative silence, eating their respective meals. They allowed themselves the calm of the other's company, and the boy even spoke to him a few times, in English, in real sentences. And that was the biggest gift he could of possibly given him.

He hadn't gotten a smile yet, or anything positive really, but he was getting the feeling that the boy was beginning to realize that he might've gotten lucky with his master. He hoped that he was. He couldn't keep this up, the ceaseless hostility, the snide remarks that he couldn't translate and the glares, the fear the boy cast onto him.

But in the week that followed there were those moments.

Moments where the boy forgot the relationship they had, forgot that Francis was the man in white, and would look at him like he just might not despise him. He would enter the study and the boy would look up at him, and then back down at what he was doing. And he wouldn't sneer or glare or make a point of his hostilities. And then, sometimes, when he came home there would be a hot cup of tea waiting for him, even better when the boy would go to make himself some and he would come back with two.

And there was this one time, during the week, when the boy came up behind him, from where he was sitting in his armchair by the window, doing some work. It had been a Saturday afternoon, Elizabeta had been getting groceries before she left for Roderich's and he and the boy had been sitting quietly for the past few hours, the boy drawing, him doing work. And before he could turn around hands were in his hair and he'd gone ridgedly still, not knowing what to do.

And the boy had run his fingers through the soft, pale yellow hair, before drawing it gently into a ponytail and tying with his little red ribbon. And then he went and sat down in his chair and pretended it had never even happened at all. All Francis had been able to do was tentatively touched the back of his head, which got him a glare, and go very red. He hadn't known what to do, what that meant, whether it meant anything at all. He didn't ask about it and the boy didn't tell. He had liked it, to be honest, probably a little more than he should have. Being touched by Arthur was like being touched by something ethereal and angelic, like something so much bigger, but still taking the time to dote on you. He touched like shy people sang, hesitation, confidence, and then, finally, strength.

It was entirely pleasant.

And he continued to do it, throughout the week. Francis would awaken, and then he would awaken Arthur, Arthur would tie up his hair, taking a moment to run his hands through it, and then Francis would make them breakfast. It was part of their routine. And when Elizabeta saw it for the first time, Arthur standing on one of the dining chairs and Francis standing in front of him, his hands folded. She had then needed to remind him of her graphic threat when Arthur went to the bathroom.

"And don't you go making excuses, young man," she had said, her hands on her hips, "I see the way that you look at him." Francis didn't think he was looking at Arthur like anything. "He's scared and just beginning to trust you, you better not screw this up." And then she had stormed off and he had needed to splash water on his face.

He hadn't brought anyone home since the boy had come into his home, nor did he think that he would for the foreseeable future. And if he did he would probably have Arthur spend the night with Elizabeta at Roderich's. He didn't really think about it, he barely even managed to go to work.

…

On the second day into the half of the week when Elizabeta was away and doing other things, for the first time, the doorbell was rung. Francis was home so Arthur didn't move, looking up briefly at the sound, but then back down again. He had been told not to open the door for anyone but Elizabeta anyway and she always came around the back.

He didn't know why the man in white told him so; it wasn't like kidnappers came to the door, or robbers. It seemed a little pointless.

"Arthur," Francis called from the kitchen, where he was preparing some sort of food, "Could you get the door?!" The doorbell rang again and the boy sighed. It was probably the postman or something; he hoped it was the postman. He didn't have the brainpower for company other than the man in white. At least the man in white didn't ask much of him, he didn't force him to talk beyond the odd one-worded response, and he seemed to own an endless supply of tea.

And he didn't like strangers, he hadn't liked them at home, and he didn't like them even less now. Strangers were no good; strangers were always ruining things. Strangers were always ruining him.

Still he stood, because he had been asked to do so, and Francis fed him even when he was angry and that had to count for something. Whoever it was at the door was beginning to bang on the wood and yell.

"Come on, Francis!" the voice yelled, "I know you're in there, Elizabeta told me you're off wor-!"

It didn't sound like a postman.

Arthur opened the door just as the man was going to bang on it again, his hand raised. They stared at each other. The man was tall, far taller than him, and well built, and he was dress fairly casually for the area. His eyes were a sparkling scarlet and his hair was starkly white, it was oddly beautiful, for some reason.

And he stared at Arthur with his mouth partially open like he hadn't even thought that the man in white could possibly have a visitor.

And he wasn't the only one on the doorstep. In his left arm was a little boy, maybe three or four, staring at him with copper eyes and his thumb in his mouth, and he was grinning. The third person was a second little boy, a little older than the first, all glowering blue eyes and a serious look.

Arthur waited for one of them to say something.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the man said through a thick German accent. Arthur attempted to locate it, eyes narrowed in thought. "I didn't think that Francis would have had company." Arthur was tempted to retort, but the man was trying to be sincere and he would've felt bad.

The boy stepped aside and opened the door a little wider.

 _"_ _Es ist okay, bitte, kommen Sie herein._ _"_ _It's okay, please, come in._ The man and the second little boy widened their eyes at him and their mouths dropped identically. Definitely related. The little copper boy just looked confused. "Did you just-" The boy nodded and gestured into the house. "Arthur!" Francis called again from the kitchen, "if they're scary, don't let them in!" The man and his boys entered the house, Arthur wondered if he should ask to take their coats but he resisted because he still didn't know whether he could trust them, he didn't like strangers. And while the man was taking care of two little boys, which was usually a good sign, he was too big for to fit into Arthur's comfort zone, he would find it too easy to overpower him, and he found it very difficult to feel safe under those circumstances. He led them towards the kitchen, calling out to Francis in return: _"_ _Je pense qu'ils sont vos amis. Ils semblent agréable._ _"_ _I think they're your friends. They seem nice._ They entered the kitchen just as Francis was turning around, and just his expression was enough to tell Arthur that they were friends. Almost immediately Francis opened his arms and started towards the man. Upon noticing this Arthur darted skittishly under his arms before his gate closed to see what Francis had been making for their lunch. None of them seemed to notice his anxious behaviour and he was glad. He was glad that the man in white had a friend, but he didn't necessarily want to be friends with the friend. He knew what large men saw of the world, and he had not reason to be that target. Not again.

…

Gilbert thumped him on the back, Feliciano squeaking in fright as the two men embraced, they stepped apart, Francis holding his shoulders and Gilbert smiling widely at him.

"Gilbert, my friend, how have you been?"

Feliciano and Lud were looking after the boy who was stirring the soup over the stove, and Gilbert put the copper boy on the floor and nudging the two of them towards him, like his little intelligence agents. They stumbled towards him, and gripped his pant legs and the boy looked down at them and patted their heads with a knowledgeable hand and a sad look in his eyes.

He refocused on Francis. He looked well, if not a little tired. His hair was tied up and Gilbert knew that he rarely did that at home and he wondered what other changes had happened while he was away.

"So who's the boy?" He asked in a low tone. Francis seemed to brighten, not only in excitement, but also in vague distress, as if he had no idea how to answer. He turned back to Arthur before responding and casually grabbed his scarf from one of the chairs.

"Arthur, come here, would you?"

Arthur was wearing a turtleneck today; he wore it a lot. He liked it because it covered his bruised wrists and arms, but was loose enough for you not to see the outline of his ribs. Francis wrapped the scarf around his neck when he came close, hoping that Gilbert hadn't noticed the strange bulge under the fabric. He held onto the tail of the scarf.

He wanted to gather Arthur under his arm and hold him tighter, but Arthur was looking at Gilbert far to distrustfully to allow himself to be touched.

"Gilbert, this is my godfather's boy, Arthur." He didn't have a godfather. "Arthur, this is an old friend of mine, Gilbert. He's Roderich's brother." He put his hand on his shoulder, and Arthur gave him a hard look, remaining, thankfully, silent on the matter.

The movement wasn't for Arthur, it wasn't an action of kindness, or compassion, or comfort; it was for Gilbert. It was a perfectly silent declaration of protection, a declaration of possession. He made a point of smiling, but he still kept his hand firmly on Arthur's shoulder. He loved Gilbert, he really did. But Arthur was small, and vulnerable, and Gilbert was big and powerful and had the unfortunate reputation of getting a bit too rough with people sometimes. And Francis was very protective over this one.

Gilbert nodded and smiled, making the wise decision not to offer his hand. The boy wouldn't have taken it.

Instead he gestured to the children around Arthur's ankles.

"These are my brother's boys, the ones that Elizabeta looks after." He gestured to the little blond boy, "this is Feliciano. He's Italian-"

"And my cousin," Francis interjected. Gilbert gestured to the other boy.

"And this is Ludwig, my nephew."

Arthur nodded understandingly, but didn't offer a him a smile. He was holding Feli's hand and resting the other on Ludwig's head and he seemed to know exactly where to put his limbs to settle them, like he knew exactly how to appear non-threatening. Francis wanted that skill.

But, he still had that sad look in his eye and Francis didn't like the way that Gilbert was looking at him so curiously.

He drew Gilbert towards him and gestured in the vague direction of the study.

"Come, let's talk," he looked over his shoulder at Arthur, "Could you and the boys make us some tea, dear?" He gave Arthur a pleading expression and the boy gave him a firm but icy nod.

He followed Gilbert to the study, and strangely enough, he found himself sitting at his desk. It felt so foreign, and weird, like he was invading a place that he had used to own, but did not anymore. Gilbert smiled at him, and sat in the chair by the window, the one that he sat in.

"So if he's you godfather's boy, why is he staying here?"

Francis felt that vaguely distressed feeling come over him again.

"Well, uh, you see… my god father... _died_ , a few weeks back, so I've taken him in. Considering he has no family, or anywhere else to go." Gilbert's expression suddenly softened.

"Oh, man," he said, "that must be difficult, especially right after Joan." He nodded gravely, but that wasn't why it was difficult. If anything it made Joan easier to handle, gave him someone to concentrate on. It was difficult for reasons that were a whole lot worse than Joan.

"Yeah, but the boy needs a home until he can get a job."

Like Francis would ever let Arthur get a job.

And then the boy came sweeping in with the tea before Gilbert could respond and they both looked up at him. He paused at the door and Francis could tell that he was considering whether he wanted to go any further. He waited for him to make his choice and after a moment he started up again, towards the desk where Francis sat, his hands folded into his lap. The boy kept his expression neutral and Gilbert kept up conversation with him as Arthur distributed the two cups of tea he had placed on one of Elizabeta's serving trays. Clever boy, everyone ignores the staff, so if he just looked the staff….

He placed Gilbert's tea on the small table right beside the chair, needing to bend over him to reach it. Francis watched both of their movements carefully, ready to leap up at any moment and give Arthur an excuse to leave the room.

Arthur stood as quickly as he could, seeming to lean back away from the man, but just as he was tucking the tray under his arm and turning to Francis to say something Gilbert grabbed his hand, training his eyes on it.

Arthur let out a small, frightened gasp, his head turning to him as fast as a whip. He immediately tried to snatch his hand away, to take it back from the albino who observed it with his unwavering gaze. He couldn't, the grip was too tight and the albino's narrowed eyes too firm. Arthur stared at him in mute horror and Gilbert raised his scarlet eyes to him.

"You been fighting boy?" He was referring, of course, to the scabs on his knuckles, the bruises had faded to an ugly yellow on his wrists and arms and abdomen, but the scabs remained. They'd probably scar when they were done.

Arthur didn't respond; he just stared at him, a wild, panicked look in his eyes, like a frightened animal.

Francis answered for him standing at the desk, his eyes firm and protective, his knuckles resting flat on the hard wood, his shoulder's hunched like a barricade.

"He was on the streets for a while, after his father died. Now let him go."

Gilbert let him go and immediately Arthur darted back, clutching his elbows so that his hands wouldn't shake. He eyed the albino one before darting out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

…

Arthur leant his back on the closed door and let out a relieved breath, his heart beat heavily in his chest and he was finding it hard to breath. At least Francis didn't touch him, at least he left him be.

He could hear the albino laughing through the door and he heard the words:

"Maybe you should get yourself a slave, I bet that would cheer him up. Someone to clean where Elizaveta doesn't, if you know what I mean…."

And then there was a pause and he listened to the door intently, for the man in white's response.

"Maybe."

And then he felt like crying.


	5. Chapter 5

Before Arthur had come there, to the South Land where the man in white lived, he'd belonged to a large family.

His family… his family had picked up boys like they were trinkets up off the streets. None of them were related to one another, but were brothers all the same. Their mother hadn't been able to have babies so she had just taken in the children that nobody else had wanted. And Arthur had been one of those boys, the third youngest.

He'd grown up half on the streets, huddling outside one of the brothels of the big cities. He had never worked there. He didn't like it there, too small, too young, only thirteen summers. But the men who came out of there, drunk off their heads, were easy to steal from and he had needed to eat every now and then, and nobody felt obliged to feed him once he hit eight.

He hadn't been raised by just one single hand; he had been raised by the city. As a baby he was passed around and fed by many hands. Taken in by many, but kept by none.

The man in white wasn't far off when he said he had been on the streets for a while, the only missing detail was that he had been born there and stayed for years. He had grown there, lived there, survived there. He had scrounged from the dumpsters of the city streets, drunk the water that ran from the cobblestones, slept in the cold fog of the night, surviving on the scraps thrown at him like he was a street dog. And he remembered the smell of the deep city smog, and the feeling of the damp walls of the alleys so well. He remembers the men and the women, the children, the power, embedded in his skin from birth. Because this was his land, these were his people.

And he knew he could survive on the grit in his teeth and the quick of his wit.

But then it stopped. Just like that. And suddenly, he found what he'd never had before.

A home… He found himself a home.

 **He'd sat** huddled outside his brothel, waiting for something ignorant to wander past. It had been a busy day and, while the sun shone, nobody noticed the brothel or the small alley beside it. He had been crouched, but not begging, never begging, simply watching the people go past and this feeling had come over him. A wild, feverish feeling **,** **all of the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and his heart pounding in his chest as if attempting to burst out, and his vision had blurred and his breathing gotten rough and** and he had set his hands on fire.

And he had screamed. Naturally.

That was the only appropriate response, and he darted frantically into the crowd, his hands out in front of him and his eyes wide and scared. The woman had thrown her coat over his hands and in a dazed panic he had let her take him home.

She owned an inn up in the countryside and had insisted that he come and work for her. She had said work, but he knew what she had meant and he would've given himself to her there and then. If she hadn't done what she did **,** **throwing her coat over his burning hands, even though he had been able to see the fear in her eyes, even though all the others stumbled back from him, too scared to try and help.** He probably wouldn't have gone with her, but she had so he did. The other boys there had looked at him strangely when he had first come in, there had only been three of them at the time, all of them older than he was. And for the next five years he had done as she said, worked there, learnt to read and write, do math, and then he learnt to read and write again, and again, starving in his hunger to learn from the people who came to the inn, the people who came from all faraway places.

And he would sit with them, in their rooms or in the lobby and he would listen to them speak, listen to their stories and their hopes and dreams and matched them with his, and he would ask them about their lives and accents and languages. And those words, those words that were different from his, tasted so nice on his tongue, so enchanting, so different. So less rotten than the world that spoke the words he knew.

And then, one day, men came to the door; they were from the South Land. Arthur had seen them before, from the city when he was a boy. Seen them taking from the streets, remembered hiding in alleyways and gardens **from them, as they prowled the streets, looking for the ones that wouldn't go missed**. They would only take so many, and he was scrawny and wouldn't fetch a high price so he had never needed to worry before. And they didn't usually come this far North, though this time they had.

Slave traders.

 **It was a small village, scenic, nice, got a good crowd during the summer. And they had never fought before, never taken up arms. But the slave traders had, they came with great long poles with hooks on the end, and knives and bitter, resentful expressions, maybe fifteen in total. Great brutes the lot of them.**

They took three of their patrons, two men on business from the east, and a woman who looked like she could've flattened mountains with a flutter of her eyelashes. And he had tried to fight for them, with his older brothers who had fought with rakes and saucepans. He had fought with his fire on his hands and spells under his breath, and he had never thought that they would want him for that.

But they did, and they said that if he just went with them, if he was just quiet about it, then they would leave his brothers and the patrons alone, leave them where they'd always been. His mother had been weeping, and his oldest brother gripped his arm, and he remembered a man with foul smelling breath pinching his chin between his fingers, telling him to show him his teeth like he was a horse and telling him he was a pretty one, that he'd make him a pretty penny.

And he had never thought that he would be one of those people. One of those people that hid their faces, or suppressed everything they were. He had always thought that he would always be too scrawny, too weak, too strong and too scarred. He'd never even wondered whether he would become someone like that, someone that was looked at like they were a thing.

He had thought he would always be a person.

He hadn't known what to do. He knew that he was strong; he knew that he wouldn't break, but he didn't know if he could say that for his brothers or the patrons or the whole town, so he had said that he would and the men had shackled him to some others, and his mother had wept when he went away.

It took him precisely three days and four lashings to finally realize what had happened, what was happening, what was going to happen. And that's when he got cold; he shivered back into his old skin, the skin that had kept him alive for thirteen years on the streets. His eyes returned to their natural size and their color dulled a shade and he looked at everyone like they wanted to hurt him, and he survived the way that he always had.

He had attempted to escape precisely nine and a half times before they bound him, and then twice more after that. Of course they beat him, lashed at his back with whips and belts, broke his jaw and his ribs, fed him only what would keep him alive, and he hadn't thought that they would be able to, didn't think there was anything worse than what he had already been through.

He was made of broken pieces, had survived on sheer luck and wickedness, and was born of ashes and dust and shattered things, yet somehow, somehow they had broken him further. They had taken his strength and laughed. They had taken his weapons and snapped them on their knees, and they didn't even give him the dignity of a fighting chance. They had made him into a thing; empty, to be used, to be ruined.

And ruined him they did.

Destroyed him in every sense of the word.

Crushed the already broken pieces.

Left him shattered.

And then there was the man in white.

The man in white who was so kind to him, who treated him like a real person, like a good person, a person who might have fears and preferences and hopes, was so kind it almost hurt. He fed him good food, and dressed him in nice clothes, and let him read all his books, and sit at his desk. He hadn't noticed while it was happening, how the man in white was fixing him. Bit by bit, and quietly. He made him feel like he might be a human again.

Until suddenly, he didn't.

Suddenly, he was slammed back down to the cold, hard, unforgiving earth to which he belonged. Back down into the mud, back down into the fear and the rot while the man in white could live on his cloud but Arthur? He was made of dirt. Because the man in white didn't care about him, about his people, about what had happened. He didn't care at all and that broke what little heart he had left.

How ironic was that, how ironic that it was killing him. He was even more broken than he had been before, was breaking, always breaking, because somebody thoughtless had tried to fix him.

The man in white didn't care about him; he was just guilty.

And that made him want to throw up onto the floor

And that made him mad.

…

The man in white caught him on the stairs. He had figured that he'd have a few minutes before Francis came to find him, while he took the albino to the door. But he had been wrong, because the albino and the children had escorted themselves out and the man in white had immediately tried to speak to him. Arthur didn't like that. But this time Francis seemed to want to talk to him. Probably corner him, apologize; pretend he cared.

"Arthur!"

Arthur paused, his hand on the rail, his blood boiling in his veins as he heard his name, but he turned anyway, eyes narrowed in a deadly fashioned. Francis' flushed face seemed to understand that he was angry, and he took a step forward, hands out, a pleading expression on his face. Arthur took a step further up the stairs.

He almost looked hurt.

Arthur almost cared.

"I'm sorry about Gilbert," he said, perfect eyebrows pulled together. "If I'd known he was coming I would've warned you about him. He's kind of a hands on person. He doesn't really get-"

"I heard what you said."

"Huh?"

"What you said, when the albino said that you should get a slave. 'Someone to clean where Elizabeta doesn't'," he quoted. He watched the man in white's face fall. "And you said, maybe."

Francis was looking at him confused, panicked, not knowing what he had done but knowing that it was bad. He didn't get it.

"Arthur, Arthur, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Arthur." Arthur couldn't tell why he kept saying his name, which made it worse. That made him madder. He took three steps forward and shoved his finger into his chest. It was the closest they'd ever been and Arthur looked at him with a fierceness in his eyes that made him swallow heavily.

"You said maybe-" he repeated, and Francis opened his mouth;

"He didn't know-"

"But you do! You know what happened to me, and you let him continue being ignorant! You didn't speak up, you didn't tell him the truth! You just let him be wrong and you didn't say anything!" He narrowed his eyes further and his vision blurred and he didn't register the horror that was forming on the man in white's face. "I have been beaten…" he said faintly. "I have been held down and tied up, and held with so many chains that I was unable to move, I have walked from one country to another and you know that. You let him be cruel, and it is just as much his fault as it is yours." He could feel a sob rising in his throat and he looked at the man in white desperately, tears brimming in his eyes and he was gripping his jacket collar as if he was going to shake him. Arthur looked at his feet, and he wanted to rest his head on his chest, but he didn't.

"And I came so close to trusting you," his voice was small and he wanted it to be strong but it wasn't. And the man in white's hands buzzed around him, not knowing what to do or whether to touch him, hug him, try to save him. Arthur looked up at him suddenly, with his shining eyes and his pure, unadulterated rage, "And now I know that I can't. You're just like the rest of them."

And then he unhooked his fingers from his collar, turned, and walked back up the stairs.

…

"Sweetie, Arthur, it's me," Elizabeta knocked again on the door and paused just long enough for him to put on clothes if he was getting changed or put something away if he didn't want her to see before she gently opened the door to slide inside. She had found the master on the stairs with his head in his hands, his eyes red and his cheeks blotched, and he wouldn't look her in the eye.

"I screwed up. I screwed up so much," he had said wearily when she asked what had happened, and he had told her what had happened, about the lion boy and Gilbert and a single ruining, hopeless word.

 _Maybe_.

And she had held him like friends are meant to do, even though he was wrong, even though he screwed up, even though she didn't think he would be able to come back from this without a lot of hard work. And she had agreed to talk with Arthur.

He didn't look up when she entered, but then, she hadn't been expecting him to. He was sitting in the window seat with his legs crossed, his sketchbook and pencils limp in his lap. She could see the angry red lines and small trickles of blood where he must've clawed at his collar, and the red in his eyes from where he must've wept. Her heart sank to the bottom of his chest. He dragged her eyes over to where she closed the door behind her, to keep Francis from listening in on them. It was probably something he would likely do.

She sat down on the bed, and for a moment they remained silent, he staring at her, and she carefully inspecting the hem of her dress. After a few seconds she looked up at him, and smiled. She didn't smile like everything was okay. Instead, she smiled like everything could still get there, like it was still possible.

She patted a spot on the bed next to her, and for a moment she became convinced that she would have to go to him, but then he packed up his things and sat down next to her.

"What have you been drawing?" she managed to loosen his fingers from around the sketchbook, and he allowed her to do so without vocally protesting, but she doubted that he would want to speak at this point. After all, that seemed to be his coping method. Whenever something bad happened he would just, fail to speak, like he couldn't find it within himself.

She flipped through it. He only had it about two week **s** , but already they were filled with things, faces, some familiar, some not. On the first page was a rough sketch of the master sitting by the window, obviously seen from the desk, though Arthur hadn't drawn his face. On the following page was another man, one she didn't know. Handsome though, curly hair, bright eyes, freckles.

"Who's that?" She pointed at his face, and his eyes flickered to the page. He took one of his pencils in his hand and scribbled on the corner of a page an arrow and the word 'Alistair' and then in brackets 'my oldest brother'. She smiled, but a dark feeling began to suffocate her heart. She had been hoping that he was some family-less runt, someone with nothing to go back to, but with an oldest brother, there came another brother, which made a family.

Which made something to go back to, something that could not be replaced.

"You have siblings," she stated. And he nodded in agreement and got off the bed to reach under it and pull out a piece of paper. When he unfolded it, sitting back down next to her, she realized it wasn't paper. It was a photo. He unfolded it carefully, as if it might turn to dust in his hands should he treat it too harshly. The photo was of seven people, three sitting on a sofa, the other four standing behind it. Arthur pointed to the first on the right, the man from the drawing, though in this he seemed a little younger, maybe only twenty.

"There's Alistair," he said quietly, pointing. Then he pointed to the man standing next to him. This man grinned full throttle at the camera, as if he thought it was the single greatest thing he had ever seen.

"That's the youngest of my three older brothers. He's only a year older than me. Kieran."

He pointed to the one in the middle.

"That's me, when I was fifteen." The younger version of Arthur stared at something off camera, probably having been distracted by something. He looked younger than he did now, not like a fifteen year old exactly. The look in his eyes was older than that, but still younger than he was now, still hopeful, happier.

Arthur pointed quickly to the one on the other side of him.

"And that's my second oldest brother, Dylan." The boy called Dylan was taller than the one named Alistair and appeared a little bigger too. He had his arm around Arthur, and they were distracted by the same thing.

On the sofa was a woman and two little babies who were, gosh darn, some of the cutest little babies she had ever seen. He pointed to them.

"Those are my little brothers, Alfred and Mathew, and that's my mother, Charlotte Kirkland."

The woman who sat smiling with the babies was tall and long and strong looking, like her boys, like she had earned them like prizes, and if anyone came near them with any ill intent she'd pop them on the mouth in a second.

Elizabeta couldn't imagine the pain she must've gone through losing Arthur.

"So that would make you Arthur Kirkland?"

He nodded.

Initially he had just been Arthur, since he had no need for a last name. Or maybe Wash Boy, because he used to do laundry down at the river for the maids in the downtown houses.

"I heard that you had a fight with the master?"

Arthur nodded again and looked at his hands.

"I don't know what to tell you," she continued, looking at him, pressing their shoulders together. "You're right, he was cowardly and deserved you're anger, but he's not like the people who stole you. You need to know that."

"He is. He takes care of me only because he feels guilty, he doesn't actually care about me. I'm only here to satisfy his conscience."

She let out a snorting laugh and he looked at her, a little hurt.

"Sorry, doesn't care about you? Little one, he thinks you're the greatest thing since the dinosaurs. Francis Lucius Bonnefoy weeps at the bottom of the stairs for just anyone." Arthur blinked at her. "He screwed up, he really did, but that doesn't mean he doesn't think you hung the stars. He would shift the foundations of the universe if it would make you happy. If you told him tonight that all you wanted in the world was this one, specific type of tea then he would race halfway around the world without even stopping to pack his toothbrush."

He blinked sadly at her and she stood, offering him her hand.

"We can make this work."


	6. Chapter 6

Francis had screwed up a lot in his life. More than he cared to admit. Some of the things he screwed up he had even had the pleasure of creating. He destroyed the things he loved and the things he didn't. He'd lost Joan, let he get away; let her become unsafe. He'd lost the one sibling he had, had her ripped from his weakened grasp and he had tried so desperately to fix what he had done, to put it all back together again.

He had looked for money, had gone in search of a good job and a nice house, had forgotten what he liked, instead adopting the thoughts of others which he didn't, but thought were nice and safe and not demanding, and scoffed at his sister when she did as she pleased regardless of what it got her. And as always, he had realised it only after something could be done. It was his way.

And then there was Arthur.

Not the most pleasant of people, that one.

He was harsh and cynical, distrustful and rude. He was traumatized, angry, fearful, and so much of him was made up of cracks and broken bits. And despite that, despite all that had happened to him, despite everything, he was still one of the best people Francis had ever had the pleasure to meet.

Because he wasn't kind, and he didn't sugar coat his speech, neither did he lie nor pretend, and within that bubble of complete and utter honesty Francis knew exactly where he stood. He had watched himself slowly and methodically climb the rankings of people Arthur hated, watched Arthur come to think he might not have been as much of a bastard as he was, cheered himself along, because Arthur didn't get any nicer, just more comfortable. And he grew more comfortable with Francis in particular. Talked more, sat with him more, sorted him out more. And Francis had thought it was the greatest thing he had ever experienced.

And then, like he had watched himself rise, he had watched himself fall, seen the hurt in those green eyes, and seen the anger and the sudden mistrust. It was no longer the mistrust of his kind, of his people, of what he represented. It was mistrust of him, of _Francis_.

Predictably, he had finally screwed up Arthur.

Francis wanted to save him so badly, wanted to fix him, make him better, draw him out of his broken and abused skin and out into the real world, the world where things were better than that, where the people raised on fairytales lived. Yet it was more than that. He was more than just another boy, more than just another broken human. He was Arthur. He was different. And it was more than just wanting to save him. Francis wanted him to be happy, wanted him to be happy with him.

He liked having someone to come home to. Liked the curt, understanding conversations they had, liked the tea and the dinners, and liked the company and the hope. And he had screwed it up.

Because he wasn't brave. He pretended to be someone perfect, and likable, and important. But he wasn't. He was shrewd, and naïve, and far too hopeful that his actions would simply make something good happen of their own accord.

But they rarely did.

He sat on his sofa, in the drawing room, Joan's drawing room, nursing his father's sixty-year-old whisky, trying to think of the best way to apologize. He almost didn't want to. He didn't even deserve the right to ask. He ran his fingers through his hair and bit his lip, wondering how appropriate it would be if he just bugged off to the nearest pub to get totally and royally smashed. It probably wasn't.

He didn't know how long he sat there; it could have been hours or mere minutes, running through situations in his head, both good and bad. None of them were right; they didn't fit. They all involved Arthur but Arthur wasn't doing what the real Arthur would have done. None of them made sense.

He heard them come down the stairs, listened to their gentle footsteps and watched them waft past the door out into the corridor and the house he wasn't allowed to inhabit, towards the kitchen. Elizabeta looked at him, just a passing glance, a passing warning.

 _Stay_.

Arthur didn't look at him, simply trailed after her, following in the wake of her swaying skirts, and Francis wanted to go to him. Wanted to wrap his arms around him, and kiss his head and apologize more earnestly than he had in his whole life.

But Arthur wouldn't have liked that, so he didn't.

He just sat on his sofa and stared at the corridor where he had passed, and then he looked back down at his whiskey and rubbed the key that hung from his neck through his shirt, a habit he had acquired. It comforted him.

After a little while he stood, numb with someone else's pain, blue eyes seeing; but not thinking. Breathing, but not on purpose. He walked, leaving his glass on the coffee table. He was made of stone. In this moment he was hard and unbreakable and impervious and capable, and he would make his own decisions, not because they would protect him, but because something was wrong, and it was his job to try and make it right.

Even if he didn't know how.

Even though he was scared.

And he didn't want this, didn't want all this crap, he just wanted them to have met under different circumstances.

To have been happy, happy to have met one another, to have gone to their separate homes thinking that maybe they would meet again and maybe they would like that. He anted them to have bumped into each other on the street, all casual and calm. He would have been able to pick up Arthur's dropped belongings and smile up at him as he did. And would flirt, and woo, and be charming. And just talk to him.

Like a real person would.

Maybe things could have been different.

So when he entered the kitchen, he took the key from around his neck, and he put it down on the table. When Arthur looked up at him from where he sat, he let their eyes meet for just a moment, just long enough to show that he had no secrets and played no games. And Francis didn't say a word, didn't voice his apology because Arthur knew that it was there and didn't need to be told again. And then he left, walked right out of there and didn't say another word.

…

Being collared…

Being bound the way that he was…it like having his legs cut off, only they were still attached to him and he had to drag them around while they rotted and decayed. And there was this constant, pounding ache, deep in his chest, like he had been stabbed and the metal had never been dragged from out of his skin, embedded between his ribs. When it had first happened he had been convinced he was dying, had collapsed near instantly at the pain, the instant, instinctive agony, like he was being deprived of air. The slavers had dragged him along the road behind their horse, shackles on his ankles, tugging along his limp and lifeless body while he recovered from the shock.

It was…hell.

It was living, breathing hell.

And when the man in white left the key to his salvation on the table next to his elbow, Arthur stared at it with wide eyes. He knew that his owner wasn't malicious; he didn't mean any great cruelty or wish him any knowing harm. The people he feared rarely did. But he was capable of it, and, sometimes, that was enough.

And he was so angry at him, so furious. So unable to forgive, but then his salvation had been given to him at last and the man in white was making it all the more difficult to be angry with him.

He could understand, of course he could, why the man in white had kept him in the collar. Francis and his foolishness didn't understand the pain that came with it, the fear, the rage. Arthur hadn't told him. And as far as he knew, Arthur could have destroyed him.

For the record, Arthur wasn't even sure that he would be able to kill the man, even without the collar. Not unless he was attacked. He only knew seven spells, and three of them were only concerned with making a really bad shepherd's pie.

He wasn't allowed to execute them inside the inn or else he broke things and his mum got mad.

The other four weren't exactly offensive; at best they were simply practical. Arthur might have been able to disarm him, maybe. If he was screaming and coming at him with a kitchen knife. Those other men, from the walk, they had been trying to hurt him. It had been his instinct; he hadn't meant to. He never meant to.

The snake incident though, that had been him. The man had been taunting him, playing with him and he'd gotten mad. Of course he had, he had been so tired, so weak, and here was this petty little man with his petty little words and the fury that had curled itself around his cold heart turned to words in his mouth and syllables in his throat and the man into a snake, withering on the ground.

Not to mention that that had been self-defense. He wasn't sure that he would be able to kill anyone in cold blood, defenseless. He wasn't ready for that; he couldn't deal with that. Let alone the man in white. Killing the man in white wasn't on his agenda.

Because he was so nice, and so well intended. And Arthur didn't think that it was a game, didn't think Francis meant him any harm. And didn't think that he would beat him, or hurt him, or hold him down. He was still dangerous, he had good intentions, but good intentions could wound just as much as bad. He knew that.

He knew that better than most.

And he could feel his legs, could feel them still attached to him in their decay, still his, still good, and when he took that key into his palm all he could think about was running.

…

Francis didn't see the collar come off, but he heard it go crashing thought the glass of the kitchen window into the back garden, coming to rest in the flower bed. He watched it fall from the window-seat in the attic where he hid among Joan's art supplies and bibles. And then, after that, Arthur had gone back to bed and slept for twelve hours straight, his neck bare and bruised and bloodied, and he a little stronger than before.

Francis checked up on him a few times, poked his head around the door, paranoid that he would just bugger off now that he could. But he never did, he just stayed there.

Slept, ate, was magical and beautiful and endless.

…

Francis couldn't tell whether they were friends yet, didn't know if he had yet earned that right. He hoped so. He would have liked it to be true, but only Arthur would be able to tell him and he wasn't going to ask. Nothing much changed when the collar came off. He didn't suddenly start sleeping on the roof or become supernaturally strong. He did most things the same way that he had before.

But every now and then, he would see Arthur quietly standing in some corner of the house when he thought that Francis couldn't see him, muttering things under his breath and holding strange concoctions in his hands. Francis would always duck away when he saw, to go pretend he hadn't.

It felt like he was invading some sense of privacy.

Other than that he was perfectly normal. Or as normal as Arthur got. He drank tea, he rarely spoke, he suffered nightmares, nothing changed; nothing changed too violently. Arthur kept the key around his neck at all times, like Elizabeta had told him to do. She had told him that he should always keep it with him, to remind himself that he had been caged and bound before, and he wouldn't be again. He was braver than that.

Francis kept the collar in the attic; Arthur didn't like seeing it.

He also gave Arthur a small spare key to the house so that he could come and go as he pleased.

He'd given it to Joan, and now he had gave it to Arthur, Francis pretended to be fine with it when he left, but he wasn't. He would have to sit very still by the door, breathing a little hard and counting the minutes until Arthur came back. Thankfully though he didn't go out very often; he didn't like it.

The people made him anxious, and he wouldn't go far unless Francis or Elizabeta went with him. But on Saturdays he would go with the maid to the markets in the middle of the city. He seemed to be comfortable there, in the thrum of the city, slipping in and out of the crowds. Elizabeta would come home and describe losing him as soon as they got to the middle of the city, like he had been there before, but then having him reappear from nowhere as soon as she had finished. But he never really disappeared on his own. He didn't like the suburbs when he wasn't with one of them; he looked at them like they were a threat to his life, so everyday and plain. He looked at them like they were liars.

Sometimes Francis would find him in the garden, tending to the plants that he kept there. Or reading in the sun.

And Francis was always talking to him, even when he refused to talk back. Chatted to him about his day, about the gallery, about his friends. And Arthur listened. Listened to his stories, and his hopes and dreams and sat with him through it all. Angry and unfriendly, but all his.

Author's notes:

For the general record, this chapter and the chapter before is all due to my editor LeFay Strent, who is the most wonderful person ever to exist. Ever.


	7. Chapter 7

The house was dark and silent except for Francis; he hadn't even turned on the lights, just rushed around in the dark, trying to be as quiet as he could. He dressed himself in his finest traveling attire: his traveling cape, a nice, comfortable suit and the sturdiest trousers he had. He tied up his hair in his ribbon and packed underclothes and one of his good jackets along with a pair of shoes in a carpetbag he kept under his bed. He tucked one of the books that Arthur had left out for him into his cape for the train and made his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Arthur," he hissed, knocking loudly on the door. He didn't have the time for niceties. Normally he wouldn't have under any circumstances entered Arthur's room without permission, but the situation was dire.

He didn't know what time it was, late, or early depending on your perspective. Usually Arthur wouldn't be waking up till nine, eight if it was a workday. He was at least six hours too early, but things needed to be done and Arthur needed to be awake for them.

"Mon lapin, I'm coming in."

He opened the door and went storming in, swallowing the thick sense of betrayal he had lodged in his throat. The room was dark, and Arthur slept in the middle of the bed, undisturbed, curled among the blankets and pillows. Francis threw open the curtains covering the window, which of course had no effect because it was about three hours before sunrise. So instead, he turned on the lamp by the bed, which made Arthur roll over and groan.

Francis flung open the doors of the closet and for a moment he just stared into it, considering jumping in and then coming out again. He wasn't even sure that Arthur would get the reference.

It was currently unclear if Arthur knew he favored men. Elizabeta may have told him, or he may have figured it out all on his own. Francis hadn't exactly given him any clear clues; hadn't gone around snogging boys, or flirting, or bringing people home. He didn't think it would help for him to know while Arthur was still hurting.

So he hadn't mentioned it, and if Arthur knew, neither had he.

Francis did not know of the practices of the Northern peoples, their traditions or opinions. He had never researched or read about the numerous societies of the people of the great Northland. They were an advanced civilization, he knew that much, and had been around for far longer than the brutish world of the Southern peoples. He didn't know whether who he tended to love would be considered a sin or worth barely a shrug of indifference.

He hoped though. There was far too much discrimination embedded in their relationship already. They had no need for any more.

Francis shook his head. His secrets were not on display tonight; there were important things to attend to. Putting the matter onto his mental backburner to simmer while he was away, he reached blindly into the closet, pulling out anything he happened to come across as it was neatly displayed. Initially he had intended for Elizabeta to clean in here as well as the rest of the house, but the boy seemed to retain a nearly military sense of cleanliness. He also didn't have that much stuff.

He laid the clothes out on the bed trying to think about what should be taken and what shouldn't. He cringed at how little clothes Arthur actually had. He had of course tried to take him shopping, but when he did Arthur was either completely uncooperative or as jittery as he had been when he had first come, sticking close to Francis. And when they went into the city he would disappear altogether and only return if Francis yelled really loud for him.

It was fine for now, but they would need to go shopping after he got back. Speaking of Arthur, he began to sit up, staring at him blearily, blinking as if he had never seen him before in his life and wanted to know what he was doing in his room and if he would stop.

And his hair spiked out in different directions and he had a small line of drool from the corner of his mouth. His nightshirt, slightly open, slipped down one of his shoulders and Francis gulped heavily and averted his eyes. Arthur blinked at him again.

"I have to go away," Francis said as soon as he deemed Arthur at least vaguely coherent. Though maybe coherent was a bit of a stretch.

"Wha…"

Arthur rubbed at the drool on his chin, and Francis pretended to be very interested in the clothes he was laying out.

"A painting has come up for auction in Paris. I need to catch a ferry across the channel in the morning, and in order to make it I need to leave here immediately." Arthur blinked at him again, barely comprehending the words that were coming out of his mouth.

 _"Alors pourquoi êtes-vous emballez mes choses?" Then why are you packing my things?_

Francis really didn't know why it was so important to have this conversation in French.

"You can't stay here, it's unsafe." Arthur frowned at him. "I'm sending you to stay with Roderich and Elizabeta." Arthur darkened from where he sat in his bedclothes, his face hardening, his jaw tightening, and Francis finally met his eyes with a pleading expression.

"Why can't I go with you?"

Francis's prepared speech about safety and security fell short on his lips, and he stared at the boy in his mother's bed, confused. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Arthur might want to come with him, might want to go with him more than stay here by himself.

He blinked and for a moment he considered it. Taking Arthur to a place where the slavery he had been born of was disapproved of and illegal, to his homeland, where he had grown, where his sister and mother was buried and his father still brooded…

He sighed.

"No, you can't." He had neither the money, nor the time. Francis didn't want to leave him, didn't want to leave Arthur with anyone, and didn't want to be anywhere that he wasn't, but still he needed to go and Arthur still needed to stay.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at him, a severe look coming across his pointed features.

"Why not?"

And naturally he would ask that question.

Francis sighed again and rubbed his forehead.

"Because I don't have another train ticket, and I've already spoken to Roderich about this and I don't have the time to organise the ferry ride for two." The gallery has organised his passage and as far as they were concerned he lived alone, had no children or even a wife. It was understandable why they had only bought tickets for him.

He leant his arms down on the bed and lowered his head, eyes down cast.

"Please don't fight me on this Arthur. I'm really not comfortable with you staying here, and it'll only be for a few days."

Arthur stared at him for a long moment, into his eyes, digging for something, anything. He always did that when Francis asked something of him, searched for malice, for some way that he profited from the course of action suggested. He didn't know why he did that.

Didn't know why he was always looking for the trapdoor in his words.

…

They stood together on the porch of what Arthur had been informed was the man called Roderich's house, the night winds lashing up from the east, the man in white's arm tightly wound around his shoulders, keeping him warm. He really wasn't wearing enough for this. And he liked being tucked into Francis's side, it made him feel safe.

Elizabeta opened the door, which was something he should have seen coming, considering that this was Roderich's house and she was on day two of her half week when she wasn't at Francis' house. She stood in the doorway for a moment, dressed in a nightgown and the glow from the lights in the corridor outlining her figure. Her hair was down and flowing onto her shoulders like a waterfall and Arthur wanted to reach out to it, but he didn't. Her eyes searched their faces, her expression half a shade shy of concern. She smiled gently at them like they were frightened animals and she wished to soothe their panicked souls.

She greeted the man in white and him and Arthur gave her a quick curt nod and the man in white did not remove his arm from around his shoulders and he didn't mention it.

He didn't want him to leave. It wasn't what he had expected to think, but as soon as he had agreed to stay with the maid and whatever other master she had, paranoia snuck in under his skin and a thought had occurred to him.

 _What if he doesn't come back?_

 _What if he doesn't come back for me?_

And he suddenly felt himself recoil at the thought of him leaving, because if he didn't come back, Arthur was alone again. Not entirely alone perhaps; he had Elizabeta, but still mostly alone, alone in a place he didn't really understand, one that seemed to want him in chains. And at least the man in white was solid. He was consistent, and he always was where he said he'd be. And Arthur might not have yet trusted him with his life, or with his friendship, but he could trust that. He could trust that he would be there if he needed him.

But he was leaving, so maybe he wouldn't.

He didn't want to be thrust into unfamiliar hands like an unwanted lamb, didn't want to be gotten rid of, kept in an unfamiliar place, put his faith into the hands of those he was not certain of, not to mention the brother of the albino, whom he had never even met and was, apparently, asleep with his children, completely calm with the fact that he was letting a stranger sleep in his house.

And it was odd that Arthur should worry about that because he worked at an inn.

He suddenly had the urge to bolt. To run like the man in white seemed to be doing. But he didn't, because Elizabeta was looking at him with that expression of hers, that 'I'm sorry this is happening, I wish it were different' expression and he couldn't defy that look, that look that was so well meaning and so kindly, and so gentle and hushed.

And in that, the maid was different to the man in white. The man in white treated him like something made of porcelain, something incredibly valuable, but fragile, to be treated with care and discretion. The maid looked at him like he could be fixed, like he was capable of saving himself all on his own, but she wished that he didn't have to.

So he allowed himself to be led into the house that was not like the house that he had been in before. This house, this house was large and filled with twisting corridors and pictures. Francis's house didn't have pictures. He gazed at them as they walked by, still tucked neatly under the man in white's arm. He saw the albino in a few, grinning madly at the camera, and the two little boys in a few others. Even the man white was in a couple of them. Elizabeta in even more.

They paused at the foot of a set of stairs and Francis gave him his carpetbag filled with his few clothes, some books, and some money should he need it. He could see the man in white's eyes glowing in the low light; he had such nice eyes.

That wasn't important right now.

And he let him lean over him and remove his traveling cloak from where he had draped it over Arthur's shoulders to keep him warm on the cab drive over. He smelt like vanilla; he always smelt like vanilla. Which was odd, because they used the same soap and Arthur didn't smell like vanilla.

He frowned and silently looked at him, waiting for him to throw up his arms and tell Arthur that he was joking and say that they were just going to go home now and get some sleep.

But he didn't.

He just held onto his shoulders and looked him in the eye and told him to behave himself and that he would be back in a few days and then he would take him out to breakfast to apologize. And he had faltered for a moment then, torn somewhere between leaving and staying. Then hurriedly he kissed Arthur's forehead, pressing his lips to the soon to be creased skin, his hand in his hair for just a moment, before picking up his own carpetbag, bidding Elizabeta goodbye and rushing briskly back down the corridor from whence he had come.

Arthur stared after him, a look of shock on his face. His cheeks heated slightly as he stared, still feeling the soft pressure of the man in white's lips on his skin. It was the most intimate moment they had ever shared in their whole relationship and it made him feel like his stomach was trying to eat itself with embarrassment. He tried desperately to think of some response but all he could manage was to just about glow with redness and a small little:

"Huh."

As if to say 'how about that then'.

Elizabeta just smiled a little knowing smile and took his hand, giving it a near soundless pat before leading him up the stairs with his carpetbag clutched like a shield to his chest. When they reached the top of the stairs she continued to lead him through another corridor with doors and photos on both sides. And just as they walked past the second door on the right, it opened.

Elizabeta didn't notice, just kept walking, but Arthur saw a young girl dressed in a nightgown poke her head around the doorway, watching them pass with interest, wide green eyes watching him watch her. He waved at her and she waved back.

But then Elizaveta pulled him into another room and he couldn't see the girl anymore.

The room he was pulled into had candles on the window frames and a large bed and he could tell immediately that it was her room. It had all her things in it. Her sewing basket, which she used to sew up his clothes, and the book that he had told her to read on the bedside table. one of her dresses hung up by the wardrobe.

"I'm sorry sweetie, you'll be sleeping with me. We don't have any other bed available at the moment." He shrugged. He didn't really care; it was a bed, which was enough for him. That was more than enough.

"It's fine," He'd slept in the same bed as other people before, his brothers, his mother, the other street kids, huddled for warmth. Other bodies didn't bother him anymore; there'd be something wrong with him if they did.

He dropped his carpetbag, slipped off his shoes under the bed, looked at her questioningly, and when she nodded he crawled under the sheets and down into the warm caress off the late night sleeping he had yet to do. He listened to her go around and blow out the candles, the lights behind his eyes going out one by one until she slipped into bed with him and whispered:

"You'll be okay here, he'll come back for you and then you can go back home."

And he fell asleep wondering which home she meant.


	8. Chapter 8

When Arthur woke up in the morning, the comfortable weight on the other side of the mattress was missing, the dress that had been hanging by the closet the night before gone. Sunlight streamed in through the window, the curtains spread apart to welcome the day.

He sat up, looking over the room with sleep still lining his vision, and his thoughts dulled with hazed curiosity.

He compared this room to the one he had grown accustomed to waking up in, how they differed in sizes. Arthur's bedroom was bigger than Elizabeta's, though hers was bigger than the usual servants' quarters, which suggested that she was less a maid and more a member of the family who happened to keep things clean and occasionally got paid for doing so.

After a few moments of sitting and staring, allowing himself to slowly regain some of his intelligence, he slid nimbly out of the sheets and covers and pulled on the pants that Francis had put in the carpetbag that were apparently his. He might have felt threatened and distrustful, but he still assumed that, even in this land, it was rude to walk around in someone else's house with just your nightshirt on. And the pants were confortable and the morning was cold.

Then he padded over to the door, poking his head out into the corridor first to check that there was no one there before slipping out into hallway. The fibers of the soft carpet wriggled between his toes, and this time, he looked far more deeply at the photos and paintings that lined the walls, hoping to know his hosts before they knew him.

He learned that there were three main reoccurring faces. One he recognized as Elizabeta at varying levels of youth, sometimes in her maid uniform and sometimes not. And then two men, both around the same age, older than him and the man in white, but not older the albino. The first man was tall and dark haired and nearly always dressed finely. He wore glasses that perched on the bridge of his nose, and Arthur liked the one where it was just him; alone on a stage with a violin, eye closed in concentration.

The second man was slightly shorter than the first, chin length blond hair, speculative green eyes, fearsome in their stern gaze, or maybe annoyed. And always standing close to the side of the dark haired man, sometimes even with their arms around one another, caught in a moment of companionship.

In some of the more recent ones there were the two boys **,** the boys the albino had brought around to Francis' house, Feli and Ludwig, usually in the arms of the two men, and that girl that he had seen the night before in a couple of others, always standing, smiling softly next to the blond man.

The man in white and the albino were in a few others, though the ones that they were in seemed to have been taken at parties or dinner gatherings and the like, rather than the formal family photos that the others frequented.

And Arthur looked over him with interest, because this was Francis before him. This was Francis grinning at something off screen, Francis drinking with his friends. A Francis that didn't know he existed yet.

He looked happy.

Just as he was looking over the last few photos, a sound started up from below him, from the first floor, an achingly familiar sound. It rumbled smoothly from between the floorboards and up from the staircase, the gliding notes of a piano, and it made his chest nearly cave in with longing and homesickness at the sound. He stared at his hands with wide eyes, unable to swallow down his heart. Where was home? And his family? How many miles stretched out between them now? An endless cavern, and him lost somewhere in the dark, unable to brace himself as the rocks collapsed in on him, crushing him with the weight of his own distance.

He took a deep breath and attempted to steady himself. His heart echoed the pounding of falling stone. He took another breath and went in search of the sound.

He crept slowly down the stairs he had come up the night before, taking care for them to not creak beneath his bare feet, instinct requesting that he abstain from sound. Following his ear, he roamed a few other corridors until he found a pair of twin doors, from which under the music leaked. He paused in front of it for a moment, hand twitching in indecision, but then nudged it open, gentle enough for it not to squeak upon sudden pressure, and slipped inside.

The room was large and very clean, musical instruments scattered about on stands, waiting to be picked up and played at just a moment's notice. The floor was wood, like the rest of the house, but spread across most of it was a large rug, probably more for the protection of the floor from scratches than a decoration. And the music thrummed through the air, the walls perfectly designed for the loudest sound, designed to make the air vibrate as it sunk into lungs, to make the beautiful sound more beautiful.

The dark haired man was very different in person than he had been in the photos. He was taller than expected, but unlike the albino he wasn't thick or muscular, more slender. He sat at a large piano with an open lid, like the ones he had read about in books and he had a small dark spot on his pale skin just under his mouth. He didn't react to Arthur's entering, didn't turn to look, or say anything, just continued to play.

Alistair played the piano, back at home, played the big one on the small stage in the tavern that was connected to his mother's inn. He didn't play like the dark haired man played now, not like someone who was concert trained, someone with books and a tutor, and money and dedication. Alistair had taught himself to play one winter; a year after Arthur had come because he had wanted to. Because it sounded so harmonious, all the keys in their perfect places, everything fitting together so nicely. He had learnt because when he pressed a specific key, it would make it's specific sound and Arthur thought that he liked that, liked the certainty, the solidness. So he had learned to play, learned how to make it work. He'd even taught his little brother a few notes. Although Arthur hadn't been very good at it, he liked to listen, he liked that Alistair liked it.

It'd been months since he'd last listened.

And what this man was playing, what he was playing was lovely, and it felt like it could have been home if he just imagined hard enough, so Arthur sunk to the floor in front of him, at the foot of the raised platform on which the piano sat, crossed his legs and closed his eyes and pretended as hard as he could. He imagined the tavern growing around him, replacing the white walls and the lightness of the morning with the rough wood of the tavern that still smelt of the spruce from which it had come, and the quiet orange light of dusk. He imagined sitting in front of the stage that Dylan and Kieran had built themselves one week in mid November, listening to Alistair practice before he played for the drinkers of the inn and the town.

And he imagined the smell of beer and sawdust, and feeling of the hard wood floor beneath his fingertips and he tried so desperately to fathom Alistair, his eldest brother, sitting at his piano, brow furrowed in concentration, hair electric red as usual, tousled and curly, clothes tattered from work.

And for a moment it felt like he could have been at home, back in his inn, with Alistair and his other brothers, and Alfred and Mathew, and his mother. And it would have been so wonderful, it would have been so safe.

"You must be Arthur."

Arthur jolted and his eyes sprung open, his heart jamming suddenly into his throat, his delusion of safety fleeing and leaving him cold and fearful because he wasn't home, he was never home. He knew that, he knew that he wasn't there. He was here. And a stranger playing a piano didn't change that.

The dark haired man was looking at him, having ended his song, his hands on his thighs, gaze steady and certain, already seeming to predict what was going to do. Then he untangled his limbs from under the piano. Arthur watched him carefully and smelt the air for his scent. He smelled of curiosity and stillness. But also like he was constantly thinking about something else, like he was missing something. Sometimes Francis smelt like that.

The scent immediately put him at ease.

…

Afterwards, the dark haired man introduced himself as Roderich, the albino's younger brother, which was surprising because they looked nothing alike and their mannerisms were completely different. Roderich drew Arthur out of the room with the piano and towards a kitchen where Elizabeta had the two boys and the girl sitting at the dining table with some oatmeal.

As soon as they had entered, the two boys looked up at the dark haired man with immense delight.

"Da! Da!" They squealed. Well, the copper boy squealed. The blond child just set his mouth in pleased little smile and gurgled happily. Roderich patted their heads in turn and kissed Elizabeta's cheeks, presumably the first time that they had seen each other since the night before.

"Good morning," he said graciously, sitting down and beckoning Arthur to sit down between him and the girl from the night before. She was younger than him, certainly, no older than fifteen, but fourteen at the youngest, and her hair was short and blonde like the blond man's from the photos was. In the previous pictures though eh had seen her with two long braids, but now it seemed to be an exact replica of the haircut the blond man had. Actually, now that he thought about it she looked remarkably like the blond man. Perhaps they were related.

She smiled at Arthur, and for the sake of pleasantries he smiled back.

"I believe you've met my sons," the dark haired man said. He gestured to the little copper boy, "Feliciano," and then to the other one, "and Ludwig." Arthur nodded and they grinned happily at him, already in the process of making a mess of themselves. And then the dark haired man gestured over to the girl from the night before and said, "And this is my daughter Lilli, and of course you know Elizabeta."

Arthur nodded and the girl smiled softly at him again and Elizabeta served him his own bowl of oatmeal with some honey the way he liked back at Francis's house. For the rest of breakfast they mostly just continued on without him while he ate his oatmeal and tried earnestly to look engaged despite not uttering a single word.

They chatted on about this and that, the usual breakfast table topics, about Lilli's schooling, and the boys' activities for the day, and a man named Vash, and how long he would be saying for.

And towards the end, when Arthur was just finishing up, there suddenly came footstep in the corridor, the sound of big, military boots and he immediately tensed; the muscles in his shoulders constricted and the tight grip of his spoon bled the color out of his knuckles.

He sniffed the air and noticed that the smell of missing something had heightened on the dark haired man, as it had on the children and the girl. He relaxed when the blond man came through the door and the dark haired man said, "Hello dear," very calmly.

The blond man looked exactly how he had appeared in the photos: short, blond, and severe; all growls and vague affection to a few. Arthur saw it when he went and stood beside the dark haired man, behind the little blond boy, and the dark haired man slung his arm absent-mindedly around his waist while he ate and the blond man rested his hand on his shoulder.

Arthur stared at them worriedly and the blond man caught him looking.

"Do we bother you?" he asked, his voice condescending, stern, looking at him like he posed some unknown threat. Arthur blinked at him, his knee trembling underneath the table as Elizabeta watched him carefully.

Arthur realized that he would have to speak. He pointed.

"No. The gun."

The blond man, as well looking exactly like he did in the photos, was also had a small pistol on his belt, tucked into a holster like the policemen did, and Arthur didn't like guns. He couldn't give two shits that they were married, but he didn't like guns.

The blond man's eyes narrowed just slightly at him, as wary of Arthur as Arthur was of him, and while Arthur could respect that, there was something in the way that he was looking at him that was nearly predatory. Arthur raised his chin and didn't look away. He poised himself to dart from the room, the blond man might have looked like he would have been able to snap him in half like a twig Arthur could bet that he was a mite faster. He would not leave himself defenceless.

"I'm a hunter," the blond said quietly, not removing the gun, not moving, just looking a him, making a point, neither party backing down. And they were all looking at him now, waiting for him to make his move, he did nothing. And instead Roderich cleared his throat, filling in the silence.

"Vash, sweetie, would you put you're gun down in the basement, it's making our guest uncomfortable."

Arthur made a point of not reacting, instead just ducking his head down and shoving a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth so he wouldn't speak. He wanted to say something sassy, wanted to stand up for himself. He wanted to be able to breath easily, but he couldn't so he just took their hospitality as it came and did not let his suspicion budge an inch.

He heard a few mutterings between Roderich and the man named Vash as he stared at the floral tablecloth, before the sound of the military boots stomping out of the room filed his ears and for a moment he closed his eyes and let go of the breath he had been holding tight in his chest. He glanced up and Lilli laughed nervously. They were all still looking at him, questioning his motives, questioning everything he did. He allowed them to do so and looked back down.

Lilli put her small hand on his arm, patting it. He stared at the action.

"Don't you worry about him," she said, in a strained, light hearted way, "He's just overprotective."

The contact made his heartbeat spike, but he didn't flinch, she was just treating him kindly, there was no need to be fearful of her. He repeated that in his head over and over again and tried to make himself believe it, glancing at her and smiling a quick, thankful smile.

His eyes darted around the table, at the others. The two boys, who were getting their faces cleaned off with a wet rag by Elizabeta, completely unaware that anything had transgressed and the dark haired man, who was still looking at him behind wire frames, pressed his lips together and set his brow into consideration.

Arthur looked at him questioningly and he cleared his throat again.

"So you aren't bothered by us?"

He could understand why they were anxious; it wasn't as if the South people were an incredibly accepting bunch. He shrugged.

"My people believe that it is only someone else's business whether a man lies with a man or women if directly involved or if there is a shortage in population." He waved towards the boys sitting across from him with his spoon, "And you already have children."

…

"Arthur, what's this one?"

Arthur looked up briefly, glancing over to the words that she had been asked to define that she was showing him from a page in her textbook, and then reading the specific one she was pointing to, not even opening his eyes to their official size, too tired, too much effort. He hadn't slept well; hardly sleeping at all for fear that he would have a nightmare and wake them up with his screams.

It was his second day in the house, and he had slept on the couch the night before, with some blankets and a pillow and an invitation from Elizabeta to join her should he need any human company. He had not taken her up on her invitation.

Instead just lay awake in the living room for the majority of the night, paranoid, flinching at the shadows, his heart thumping in his chest, being the last to fall asleep and the first to awaken, missing the certainty of having Francis just across the hall, and the knowledge that if he was scared he would wake up and start slamming doors around the house, just to let Arthur know that he was still there.

The day before had been pleasant, he supposed. He'd spent most of it in the music room with the man named Roderich, who seemed to make his living as a musician, performing at high-end concerts and Arthur, after a little while, after getting used to his quiet, but melodious ways, liked him. They didn't speak, no, and he didn't babble like the man in white did, didn't fill up the silence, he didn't care for awkward silences, and Arthur liked that. Instead they sat in silence, within their own bubbles of their own arts and that was nice, that was simple and at least he knew that he could deal with that.

And Arthur didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, but he liked him.

So he spent a lot of the day tucked into the corner of the music room in a comfortable chair, listening to the dark haired man write music on his piano, with his sketch book and no tea. Because apparently this family didn't do tea, they did coffee, and he hated coffee.

Lilli blinked at him and waited for him to respond, completely certain that he would know the answer.

"I couldn't find it in the dictionary," she stated, not wanting him to think she hadn't thought to look it up, and placing her textbook back down on the dining room table and looking at it seriously. Unlike the day before, he had no opportunity to sit in the music room with the dark haired man today, because he and his scary husband had left for the day, on a day trip across the city, visiting friends he had been told. And because of this, he was babysitting while Elizabeta cleaned the house and occasionally went out to the markets. He had offered after all. Children, he knew how to handle children. They demanded very little of him.

"That's because it's Latin," he said, looking back down at his book. He knew Latin, he'd learnt it from an old Italian man who had stayed at the inn for a full two months before moving on, and he had practiced with him everyday while he painted the countryside. " _Defessus_ , it means weary, or tired."

He glanced up and she smiled at him, and he made the decision not to smile back. He didn't feel like smiling. He didn't like it here; he wanted to go back to Francis' house, he wanted his own bed back. The people in this house were nice, yes, but there were just so many of them. Back in Francis' house he always knew where everyone was because there was only Francis and he was always tripping over things and sending them crashing to the ground, but here, here all the footsteps kept overlapping and the smells kept getting mixed with all the other smells, and he liked them. They were friendly, and kind. Even the blond man, because at least he could understand that he was simply attempting to protect family and that was what he would have done, but they demanded so much of him. They wanted him to talk, and trust so quickly, and all he wanted to do was take a step back so that he could see all of them at once and fix them with his suspicious gaze.

All he wanted was for Francis to return to him and take him back to that house where at least the pain was a little bit smaller and the conversations less demanding. Because Francis knew the truth, knew whom he was, where he had come from.

And he made Arthur feel like a real person.


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur stared at the ceiling, eyes half open, breathing deep. It was a nice ceiling, imprinted and painted with gold detailing. This was an old house, having been built with those imprints and curves of plaster, and it would probably crumble with them too. He stared and breathed and let the cold air press in on him. This room, the living room, had a very specific smell, sort of… metallic, though warm. It was an odd smell. It bothered him; he had never wanted scented candles more in his entire life.

He didn't know what time it was; late he presumed. Everyone else slept soundly, even the two boys who had been extremely reluctant to go to bed as they had been requested to do. It was just him, awake in the house, staring at the ceiling of the living room. Breathing.

One of his arms pressed against his forehead and the other lay on his stomach, and he wanted to sleep, wanted to close his eyes and have it be morning when they opened again, and he'd be well rested and fresh.

He hadn't been well rested _or_ fresh in a very long time.

Even if he did sleep, he would only wake up again covered in sweat, shaking, and chances were, probably yelling. And that filled him with fear, made him anxious, made paranoia sink into his bones and refuse to give him up, because maybe if they knew how damaged he was, they would leave him like Francis seemed to have done.

He breathed in and held the breath in his lungs before swinging his legs onto the floor, feeling the chill of the polished wood beneath the balls of his feet. He only let out his breath when he stood, rising to his full height and working the stiffness out of his shoulders.

He stared forwards at the darkened fireplace, the ash ready to be swept out once the morning came, the blue-green tiles that lined the space around it, blackened with the years of continuous burning. And then, his expression unchanging, cold and still, he moved, placing one foot directly in front of the other, practicing being graceful. He held out his arms for balance and hopped from one floorboard to another, making sure to avoid the ones that he remembered to creak. Choosing directly not to step on any of the lines like Kieran had told him to do when he was younger.

He headed towards the kitchen.

The kitchen was Arthur's second favourite room next to the music room. He liked it because it smelt exactly the way a kitchen should, kind of homely, and warm, like dough, and that comforted him. It was an old kitchen, still with most of its original furnishings, though it worked well. It had been built to last and lasted it had. He liked to think that he had also been built to last.

The curtains that hung over the window just above the sink were open and the moonlight streamed in, bathing the whole room in a clean, white light. He stood in front of it and breathed slowly, the floor tiles prickling his feet with cold, and none of his movements ever making a sound, not wanting to wake his hosts.

He shook his head and huffed slightly. This was stupid, this whole goddamn situation was stupid, and he couldn't guess anyone's motives and he was bored and he couldn't sleep and this was just… stupid.

And it wasn't meant to happen; none of this was meant to happen. His whole life had been a series of extraordinary events that had passed him from one person to another, and he couldn't do this anymore. He couldn't just go slowly; he didn't have that luxury. He didn't want to keep getting taken care of. Why couldn't someone, for once in his life, just look him straight in the eye and tell him that he was perfectly capable of looking after himself? He wasn't weak; he knew he wasn't weak.

He was volatile and scared and distrustful and rude, but he was not, in any sense of the word, weak. And he would not be treated as such.

He sighed. Then snapped his fingers.

A soft green light lit up the room, brighter than the moonlight had been. Green flames flickered upon the palm of his hand like he had doused his hand in chemicals and lit it to burn. Ironically this was the first thing he had ever been able to take control of, learnt how to make it happen on will, learnt how to make it his own. And now it was nearly effortless.

He wasn't weak.

He held out his hand to the cupboards in the shadow of the moonlight, lighting them up to reveal the door handle, which he pulled open in search of the biscuits. This family might not have had any tea, but they at least had biscuits.

Arthur didn't take many, only two, not enough to be noticed, just enough to get him through the night. He hadn't eaten much at dinner; he didn't really like their food. He wasn't picky, hardly, but he missed Francis' food. He liked Francis' food. The soups especially, and the pastries, and the stews made his mouth water now by mere memory alone.

He extinguished the flame in his hand, shoved a biscuit in his mouth, closed the cupboard and turned around to find Lilli staring at him with wide eyes, clinging to the doorframe. He froze where he stood.

And then, a long, creative, thought-provoking string of profanity went like a steam train through his head, which ended quite simply with:

 _Shit_.

…

Lilli liked him, the boy, Arthur. She thought he was sweet, but he was also one of the saddest people she had ever met. She could see it in his eyes, and the way that he had watched her the night that he had come, the way that he hunched his shoulders when someone new came into the room. The way his eye would twitch when someone touched him, and the way that he spoke, somewhere between defiance and rage, and the way he looked when he thought that nobody could see him. The way that his shoulders levelled, and he stood straight and proud, and his eyes would be thin with speculation, like a snake, and it was in those moments when he looked completely and undeniably colossal.

You could tell. You could tell that it took everything he had not to crumble to the floor with the relief of not being seen, and weep his little stone heart out, but he didn't. He just remained, strong and patient and waiting for something to happen, for something so go horribly, horribly wrong.

And she liked that about him. She liked the way that he was so strong, so unbeaten. Crushed but still working.

But unlike so many ruined people, he didn't speak like those he spoke to were weak. He didn't look at them with any resentment, or envy, or jealousy. And he was smart, curious, and he wanted to know. He didn't want to ask, but he wanted to know.

And he was good. He had seen the worst of humanity, seen the worst that they could possibly do, and he was still a good person. If she fell down, she could count on him to help her up. If she was scared she could count on her to comfort her. You could see it in his eyes.

Papa didn't think that she knew where he had come from or what he was doing there, but she did. She had noticed his thinness, and the faded bruises and the frantic scratches around his neck as if he had been throttled. So she had asked, and Da had told her, thought that she was old enough to deserve the truth, and suddenly, then, it had all made sense. Why he feared and distrusted them.

It was good that Francis had taken him in, taken the broken boy into his home with the hope that he might get better. It would almost be like adopting a bird, fixing it's wing, and teaching it how to fly again, had Arthur been a bird, But he wasn't. He was a person, and he had thoughts and emotions, and she wondered if he had a family, if he had a home to go back to, and if he yearned for it like a bird yearns for the sky.

The flame in Arthur's hand flickered as he looked through their cupboards, going for the biscuits Lilli realised. She remembered noting how little he had eaten at the dinner table, and knowing that Da had noticed it too. Papa had been pretending he didn't care.

Papa didn't like the boy, didn't like the fact that he was in their house and eating their food and all that had happened. He knew, naturally, where Arthur had come from, and that was what worried him, worried that the boy would blame them for his imprisonment and would snap and go after them.

She hadn't thought that he was big enough to go after them, to do any significant damage, but then, a flickering flame was in the palm of his hand and she wasn't sure. Then the flame went out. Arthur simply closed his fingers over his palm and lowered it to his side casually, and then he turned around and they stared at each other for a long, drawn out moment in which both party refused to make any movements.

It was hard to fear him; she had to admit. His hair was uncombed and going in all different directions, and he had a trail of crumbs down his chin, and was hardly taller than she was. He was hardly intimidating, but still.

Of course she had heard of the magic users of the North Land. They were notorious for their secrets and ancient practices, the rumours were innumerable and everywhere. Some were ridiculous, like man dancing and chanting around bonfires, half naked and tattooed, casting curses and other nasty things. And others were smaller, just whispers heard around corners. About the ancient tribes that still lived undisturbed by the modern world up in the northern most mountains, and the silent traditions of an ancient people with years of experience. And then there were the magic users and they were everywhere. The folklore of the Northern land had been dictated by their presence, there were the ones who wrote it down. They were the healers and warriors of the Great Northern Land. They had many names, those born with the ability to cast spells and look at the world differently from the way that the rest of them did. She had heard nearly all of them; mages, warlock, witches, wizards, or sorcerers, but she had also heard that they had died out nearly a hundred years before, some sort of mass extinction, she did not know. And the boy didn't look even twenty years old, let alone a hundred.

Arthur didn't make any movements, probably didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to say either, so she just stared at him, and waited for something to happen, something that would lead to the discovery of something.

He reached out to her with a shaking hand and a mortified expression.

"Please don't tell your dads."

And then she ran as quickly as she could out of the kitchen and back up the stairs and into her bedroom to fret about the person sleeping in her living room.

…

Ironically, he slept really well after that, as if relieved that, finally, something had gone wrong.

…

Arthur sat silently at the table, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his shoulders coiled and all the muscles in his body perfectly tensed. His bones were springs and his heart and elastic stretched thin inside his chest cavity. Elizabeta swept around the kitchen, her skirts sweeping around behind her, making oatmeal before any of the other patrons of the house arose to meet the day. He could already hear the quick, short footsteps of the boys right above him.

He could tell that Elizabeta was looking at him, monitoring him, and he didn't know whether it was because she was scared of him, or because she thought he was scared of her. He wasn't scared of her, because she knew what he was. Francis had told her. It had bothered her in the beginning, he had been able to tell, but then, he had just told her the truth, the truth about him, explained the circumstances, because he gained nothing from her anxiety, he didn't want her to fear him.

He liked the fact that Francis knew that he couldn't control him, liked the fact that there was always the possibility that he was extremely powerful.

So he just remained sitting there, not talking, and waiting for some wrath to come down upon him, because he was sure that it would. Eventually.

He expected them, when they came down and found him in their dining room, to hit him, beat him, yell at him. And he wouldn't fight back even though he could, because at least for a time, they had let him be in their house, had let him eat their food, and study with their daughter and play with their sons, and that, that had to mean something to someone, and it meant something to him.

Of course, it wouldn't be the dark haired man who would beat him; it wasn't enough of an instinct. He would be the one to look at him with terror and betrayal in his eyes, as they rushed down to see if it was true, telling their children to stay upstairs, out of sight. It would be the blond man who would beat him. Because the blond man was violent, Arthur could see it in his eyes, so undeniable, so impenetrable. He would fight because he instinct told him to and Arthur couldn't resent him for that.

At this point it just felt like everything in the whole world wanted destroy him, drag him back from whence he had come, no matter the fact that he would always stagger back on broken limbs, ripping off his bonds, through the mud, dirt and decay.

But he didn't know if he had the energy to fight it anymore.

He wanted to run, he could feel it in his bones; the urge to cut his losses and bolt as quickly as he possibly could, out the door and into the street. He imagined running, his bare feet pounding against the cobblestones until he reached the inner city like the city that he remembered. He imagined breathing in the city smog, and the smell of cigarettes and wine and broken dreams, because at least there, at least there he could slip into the skin of someone whole and unshakable.

But he didn't. Because there was still the chance that between now and the time it took for the masters of the house to arrive, Francis might come back for him and take him away before they could point and sneer and spit words like acid.

Freak.

Monster.

Get out.

Maybe Francis would prevail for him again, maybe he would be the shining face in the crowd all over again.

But he didn't.

Because then the men appeared at the doorway together, dressed for the day, and Arthur looked at his hands and waited, some part of him already half way out of his chair, ready to dart away. He waited tensely for hands to wrap themselves around his fragile neck and steal the breath from his lung.

But they didn't.

Nothing happen. The dark haired man just bid him good morning and all he could do was grunt confusedly. It took him ten minutes of listening to the three of them chatting about the morning, before he could look up to sniff the air, to tell if they were just playing with him, toying with his fears.

But they weren't

…

He found her in the garden, sitting on the wooden bench with one of her books and one of the nice summer dresses that he was sure that Elizabeta would have pointed out for her. And she was wearing that little, green bow in her hair and he was sure that it had been a gift from someone. She didn't notice him when he stood there, to the side of her, but he liked that.

"Thanks for not telling them." Arthur slid in to the seat next to hers, with the second book he had been allowed to retrieve before Francis had bustled him out of the house. Lilli slid a look over to him before darting it back down to her book, as if trying to pretend that she had seen him there.

"How do you know I didn't tell them?"

He shrugged.

"I just do." He knew because if she had told them they would have smelled like fear or anger or maybe lying, but they didn't. They smelt the way that they usually did, save for Lilli. She smelt like fear. Not full blown fear, just… agitation, just anxiety. The sort of anxiety that came with not knowing what you were meant to do with your hands, and not knowing whether it was appropriate to look someone in the eye.

He let her stay there, let her stew in her worry, didn't attempt to draw her out of it, knowing on some level that it would only make her more suspicious. He had to admit, he liked her, liked her silence, liked that she liked him back. And when she hadn't told anyone about the fire in his palm the night before, the sentiment only solidified.

Because, you know, she was nice, and Arthur had the capacity to be nice if he really wanted to… and his mother would like her, and he based nearly all his relationships off that.

Plus, it would be nice to have a friend who didn't legally own him.


	10. Chapter 10

_(Francis, age 8)_

 _Joan flicked Francis in the ear and hissed at him, so he folded his arms across his little chest and, under his breath, hissed back. He hissed in the quiet of his breath because hissing at a lady was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, and, while he could argue that Joan hardly counted as a lady, Papa begged to differ and that was enough for Francis to do it under his breath._

 _"What?"_

 _He let his eyes slide to her, more out of curiosity than malice. She was grinning at him, eyes wide; the corners of her mouth seemed to rip through her cheeks. There were leaves in her hair again, and mud smeared on her cheekbone and tears in her dress. He looked at her disapprovingly and then down at his own pristine attire. Her hands were out to him, cupped over something; probably another moth from the attic._

 _They stood outside the door to the garden, standing just off the path, waiting for Mama to come out to play with them before lunchtime. It was a nice day, with the sun shining beams of gold through puffy clouds, and the flowers had just begun to bloom for spring. Soon, the garden would be filled with colours worthy of Mama to recreate when she got her new paints._

 _Francis tried to pretend that he didn't care, but when Joan opened her hands to reveal whatever it was she had caught, he had to stop himself from gaping at it._

 _A rabbit?_

 _His sister had caught herself a baby rabbit, and it blinked rapidly at him, tiny ears and nose twitching, nearly slipping from her palm with its quivering._

 _"You can't hold him like that," he found himself saying, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that that was not the appropriate response, but not having the will to care. Instead of chiding her about whether it had fleas or diseases, he pulled the terrified thing from her palm and towards his chest, holding it closely in his arms, feeling the shaking slowly cease as the bunny began to paw at his cheek with the sweet relief of some sort of safety._

"Sir," someone called. "Sir, wake up. We've reached yer' destinati'n."

His cab driver was a portly man, ragged bowler hat and decaying tweed suit and all, and he patted Francis on the shoulder, asking him to awaken. It was nearly midday now, not the time to be asleep, but he was exhausted, having hardly slept with worry.

Francis was anxious; he didn't like leaving Arthur with anyone. He knew that he could trust Roderich, and Vash only resorted to violence upon provocation, and Elizabeta was there to smooth things over, but still. He knew Arthur hadn't liked it and that meant that Francis didn't like it. It was a chain reaction, and all Francis wanted was to pick him up and go home with the certainty that he was safe. Then Francis could sleep into the new millennium.

He groaned and picked himself out of the cab, not taking his things, and the cab driver sat back in the front.

"Please wait here," Francis requested, struggling to push his mind towards clarity. "I'm just picking someone up."

"Yes'ir"

He hoped to God that Arthur hadn't panicked and run off. It had been three days now, more than he had intended to be away, and it wasn't like he had left him with people he knew. It wasn't irrational to think that he might have had run off, might have acted rashly, or panicked. He held his breath all the way to the door and when he knocked, Elizabeta opened it instantly, probably having seen him emerge from his cab. Her expression changed from one of pleasure to one of concern once she got a good look at him.

"You look horrible," she said by way of greeting. He nodded indifferently.

"Arthur?" He had some priorities and they currently went:

1) Arthur

2) Sleep

3) Elizabeta's opinions on his appearance

And that was about it. Small talk wasn't even on the list. She smiled that knowing smile of hers and stepped out of the way for him to come in before answering.

"He's fine, just wants to go back to which ever home is readily available." Francis wasn't entirely sure whether he understood that sentence, but he was too tired to look into it. Instead, he simply allowed her to steer him into the house, and presumably towards his boy. "He's in the music room with Roderich and Lilli. He likes the piano."

Francis nodded a little uncaringly and yawned, covering his hand with his mouth. While he expected to just go on, she paused before she opened the door and he looked at her with some mild surprise.

She looked at him for a moment, her lips pressed together into a straight firm line, as if she were considering something. He looked at her hopefully, trying to prod her along to whatever destination she leaned towards. Her eyes bored determinedly into his, her expression doubting, and careful, as if she had some sort of delicate information and didn't know whether to tell him.

Something niggled at the back of his mind as the pause drew longer, that something had gone wrong, that someone had overstepped some boundary or that something was broken, and he knew that she had said Arthur was fine, but Elizabeta was as capable of lying as the rest of them. All his weary muscles tensed in agitated anticipation.

But then, all of a sudden, that expression she held cleared and she smiled softly at him as if she had found some sad resolve.

"You've done good by him, Francis. You really have."

She nodded once, still smiling at him, and pushed open the doors, turning away from him, leaving him with just that little piece of careful congratulations. He didn't know how to respond, so he didn't, just followed her in, confused and tired, and hopeful.

The music room as always was very clean with a scattering of Roderich's various musical talents. The floor was made of wooden panels, and the curtains on the windows had been changed from the heavy winter ones to the light, white ones for the summer, to let the breeze in. Roderich sat on the piano stool with his daughter and a pen, and they looked up at the sound of the door opening. So did Arthur, who sat curled up in a large armchair in the corner of the spacious room, book open on his lap, one of the two that Francis had let him take. He had no doubt already read the other one.

He watched from behind Elizabeta as Arthur's expression morphed into one he couldn't quite trace, but looked to be something akin to relief. The emotion disappeared too quickly for Francis to be sure, hidden safely under the mask of his skin. He was already beginning to gather his things, obviously ready to suspend this little holiday.

And he didn't smile at Francis because he never smiled at Francis, but he still went and stood beside him as soon as he could and that was enough.

…

Arthur fell asleep nearly immediately as they got into the carriage, just tucked himself under Francis's arm, got comfortable, shifting peacefully in his seat as if Francis were more a piece of furniture than a person, and fell asleep, just like that, as if on command. Francis let him, because in that moment he was enormously flattered and if nothing else proud because here was this broken thing, this human that trusted nobody and nothing, but, nonetheless, might have just started to trust him.

Francis spent the ride home quietly, not sleeping as he had done before, but leaning his head on the windowpane and smiling, because for the first time in three days he felt safe. And he knew that wasn't the way it should be. This had never been about Francis relying on Arthur, this was never about Francis being saved, but… somehow… somewhere… it had turned itself in both directions in a way he had never intended it to.

…

When they reached the house, Francis paid the cabbie and carried Arthur on his back, arms wrapped loosely around his neck, in to his dark house. He remembered when he bought it, all by himself, no Joan, or his mother, just his own decision. He remembered standing in front of it with the agent and knowing, in his bones, that this was where he wanted to live. He placed an offer then and there, on that Tuesday morning in mid-November, wearing his nice sunglasses and a casual suit, having no idea what would come of the house or who it would come to shelter.

Inside the house, it was cold, and empty. All the lights were off and it smelt clean, but cold; you could tell that nobody had resided there for at least a few days. He didn't even close the door before laying Arthur gently down on the sofa, still asleep. Francis covered the boy in the blanket he kept in one of the linin cupboards under the stairs, all his movements dazed and tired and vague. Because the house was cold, and Arthur wasn't, and for some reason, Francis wanted him to remain that way, because it was important.

Francis turned on the lights in the corridor and the kitchen and made tea, even though the tea that he made tasted like weak leaf water, and the tea that Arthur made tasted like the finely steeped drinks you purchased from high-end teashops. But he made it nonetheless, and took a few of the good biscuits from the cabinet beside the stove that Arthur hadn't investigated yet and another blanket from the linin cupboards. He sat down in the chair beside the sofa, not wanting to leave the resting blond, not having the energy to slog up the stairs to his room.

The armchair he sunk into was a big, ugly thing, but god it was comfortable. It had belonged to his mother, before she had died, and when his father had tried to throw it out when she passed, Joan had swooped in and taken it for her own. And then when Joan had died his father had tried to throw it out all over again, and, well, he couldn't let that happen. Even blind with mourning, Francis had needed to keep it with him. Needed to keep it safe.

He sat with the book that Arthur had told him to read while he was away. He was just getting to the good bit now, but his eyes kept slipping past the words, focusing in and out, like he faded into vagueness every time he read more than four words. He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he did, one hand resting on Arthur's soft hair, and the other holding the book loosely in his lap. The tea that he had made grew cold as he slipped into a warm, dreamless sleep.

…

When Francis awoke again, Arthur was gone, and so was the book and the tea, his hands empty and his legs and torso covered in the blanket that he had only left folded on the arm of his mother's chair for when he got cold.

The house was still dark; as it was outside, still gloomy and unlived in, but it was dark and he was tired, so instead of feeling depressed about it, he gathered the blanket around his shoulders to shield himself from the chilled air and trudged around the house to find Arthur, because that was always his first priority. Before he ate, or slept, or washed, he found Arthur. Francis made sure that he was safe, and cared for, and that he was okay.

That thought tortured him while he was gone, the fact that he didn't know if Arthur was okay. He knew, logically, that the boy was among friends, but being unable to confirm it for himself left him feeling blind, stabbing wildly into the darkness of his own head, hoping to god almighty that he was safe even though Francis wasn't there to keep him that way.

He found Arthur asleep in his room, covered in blankets, his clothes uncharacteristically strewn about the floor, a tuft of hair poking out of covers, and toes sticking out the end. He crept in and pulled the covers over them, tucking it under his ankles before creeping back out again, towards his own room, and collapsing onto the bed with the intention of not getting back up until Arthur demanded food.

…

The next day, they lived quietly, sliding back into the routine that they had once shared. Francis got up first, made breakfast, and woke up Arthur. Arthur put up his hair with a substituted ribbon because he left the red one on the train, and then they ate breakfast together, at the dining table, across from each other, not talking. They had no need, nothing to talk about, nothing that needed to be said or would be appropriate to say.

So they sat, ate their breakfast, and relished the peace.

Throughout the day Arthur would pop his head around the door to see where Francis was, check that he was still in the house, still safe, still where he should be. It was always for a moment. When Arthur got up to make tea, or do something else, he would first go and find Francis, check up on him.

And Francis would watch him back, watch him look around the doorway, confirm that he was where he had said he would be, and dart away again, and Francis would smile, because this was good, this companionship.

…

Francis was cooking.

Again.

Arthur sits at the kitchen table, watching him, his chin resting on his hands, staring at him, watching him swing around the kitchen, like a dancer, making dinner, talking to him about something aimless. Something about the market, something about how France had been, the auction. About how he had somehow managed to purchase both the painting that he had been sent to buy, and a separate, second painting, all with the money he had been sent with to buy only the first painting. Needless to say, his employers were very pleased.

Arthur half listened, mostly he just stared; tired eyes following him around the room, watching him cook, chopping up the carrots he had gone out that morning to buy. Arthur wasn't allowed in the kitchen when Francis cooked because he tended to both break and burn things, sometimes at the same time. He was very talented. Francis was very confused.

Arthur liked the way that he slipped graciously around the obstacles of the kitchen, like to watch his hands move with out Francis even needing to look where they were going, liked the way that it was clear that he and the kitchen operated on the same frequency. It was like they were so in sync, like a piece of music being played in perfect time. He smiled a little, letting his guard down.

Because Francis wasn't paying attention, he could tell, even though he was talking, and he thought that if Francis' guard was allowed down, then so was his. So that they matched. He hid the smile gently in his arms, and staring down at the table exhausted, but not willing to leave Francis alone. In case he went away again.

"Arthur? Arthur, are you listening?"

Someone clicked their fingers in front of his eyes, and he sat up, meeting questioning, blue eyes. He blinked hazily.

"Huh?"

Francis frowned at him cautiously, and continued to mix whatever it was that he was mixing.

"I asked how Roderich's was," he said pointedly, pushing his eyebrows together and raising his jaw as if to look at him over his own eyelashes. And he had really nice eyelashes, long and curved, and they matched the rest of his face, which was also nice. And he was beautiful, really just beautiful. The way that his nose sloped, and how his ears were near elfish, and the way his eyes always looked like they weren't trying to invade your privacy, but if you really wanted to, he would be there to hear anything that you had to say. And there was something beautiful about that. Something about the way that his hair always fell behind his ears, and was curly in just the nicest way. And the way that his cheekbones weren't sharp, and his face always looked like he expected something good to happen.

"His husband scares me," Arthur answered, as if that cleared everything up, laying his head back on his arms. "But the girl was nice." He could feel Francis look at him, smell his spiked anxiety in the air. There was always something vaguely anxious about Francis, but not in a worried way, in the sort of way that told you that he wanted what was for the best, that he wanted it to be good and was anxious when it could go the other way. Which was always.

"Oh? Lilli, you liked her?"

Arthur could tell that whether he had liked the girl wasn't what he really wanted to talk about it, but he let it go. If he wanted to interrogate the man who owned him he would do it when he was feeling less tired and at least a little more enthusiastic about it.

"Yeah, she was nice, friendly. Her brothers are cute too."

He didn't want to talk extensively about it, didn't have the energy, but for short, curt, cut off sentences. Francis eyed him cautiously; Arthur eyed him back.

 _"_ _Ce qui est erroné avec vous?_ _"_ _What's wrong with you?_ Arthur asked plainly, eyes half open but pinpointed, stern, like he knew exactly what he was doing. He liked talking to Francis in French, because it made it feel special, made him feel like they were discussing secrets that only they knew

 _"_ _Rien ne va pas avec moi. Je veux juste savoir comment votre visite est allé._ _"_ _Nothing is wrong with me. I just want to know what how you're visit went._

Arthur ran his tongue over his top front teeth and looked at him with his round, all-seeing green eyes. He didn't believe him, of course he didn't. Francis was a bad liar, obviously he was mulling over something, something that obviously concerned Arthur, but he wasn't gonna dig at it. If Francis wanted to keep something from him, then that was fine. But all this floundering was annoying.

 _"_ _La visite était très bien, merci. Tout le monde était parfaitement civilisé et je l'ai apprécié autant que je peux être réputé avoir apprécié._ _"_ _The visit was fine, thank you. Everyone was perfectly civilized and I enjoyed it as much as I can be expected to have enjoyed it._

And then he lay his head back down on the table, and as he did he saw Francis smile as him fondly, and as his eyes closed with a certain firmness, he felt Francis lean over and rub a hand through his hair, and it was such a nice feeling that he didn't even tense, or growl. Just smiled into his arms.

…

Francis knocked politely on the door, trying to pretend that he had something casual to say.

In truth, this wasn't a casual topic.

"Mon lapin, I need to speak with you." By 'speak with' Francis meant 'tell you something'. But he didn't say that, because he didn't want Arthur getting spooked, not when he'd just spent three days with people he didn't understand, without any knowledge of when Francis would come back to him. He had been spooked enough this week.

"Come in," he heard the muffled call through the door and with his hand already on the doorknob.

Arthur sat in his bed, legs crossed under the covers as he sketched, fingertips blotched black with charcoal. Previously, he would have gotten up and come to the door, made sure it was him, and hardly allowed him to enter, but now, as long as he knocked, Francis was free to enter as he so wished. Arthur looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to say whatever it was he had come to say. Instead, Francis sat down on his bed, not too close, not too far.

He could tell that Arthur was looking at him with that 'I'm not sure what you're doing, but I'm quite sure that I'm not going to like it,' expression, which unnerved him deeply, but he wasn't going to back away, because for once, he had something good to say, and he could tell that Arthur would be pleased. And that made Francis pleased.

"So you know that auction that I went to?"

Arthur sent him a look.

"I _did_ somehow manage to notice."

Francis smiled while Arthur still gave him that look.

"Well, an associate there informed me of another auction, up in the Northland," He felt Arthur's interest spike and Francis knitted his hands together, bending over his knees. A small smile tweaked at his lips. "And I was thinking that maybe we could go. Together. Elizabeta told me about your mother owning an inn up there, and it's pretty close to the auction; I checked it out."

Arthur's eyes widened. His grip on his sketchbook tightened, and his knuckles were painted white. The look in his eye was nearly desperate.

"And I was thinking that we could make a little holiday out of it. And… you could go see your family."

He smiled at him, waiting for Arthur to smile back at him, waiting to be congratulated, waiting for Arthur to finally, finally, smile at him the way that he wanted him to smile at him, to show at least a little bit of affection, to shed a little light through all that hostility.

But Arthur just stared at him, mouth slightly open, eyes widened in shock, and Francis faltered for a moment. Maybe he was upset? God, he hoped not. Francis couldn't think of a reason why he would upset, but paranoia at this point was a near permanent feature in his inherent personality.

And he watched as Arthur stared at him, his eyes narrowing, less like he was suspicious, though he was surely suspicious, but more that, like he was fading in and out of consideration, one expression hoping, the other bitter. Looking at him like someone might look at a great treasure at the end of a long hallway. Knowing that they would give anything to just walk down and grasp it in their hands, but also knowing that they probably couldn't.

"I'm serious," he offered, covering Arthur's small hands with his own without even thinking. "I'm not just playing with you." And Arthur looked at him so desperately, with something near hunger in his eyes, desperate, desperate for it to be true, for Francis to be good, for something, something, just this one thing, to go right the way that he wanted it to.

And then something wonderful happened.

Arthur hugged him. Literally launched himself across the bed, tossing aside the sketch book to wrap his arms tightly around Francis's shoulders and cling to him, whispering 'thank you' over and over again into his ear, like all the insurance he needed for his life was that Francis knew how thankful he was.

Francis didn't falter. He wrapped his arms around that thin frame, and held him tightly, resting his cheek firmly against Arthur's soft hair, because Arthur deserved something good in his life, because there was so little, and there was something in him that wanted to be the person who gave it.


	11. Chapter 11

"Arthur, it's time to wake up now." Elizabeta knocked politely on the door, before opening it regardless. He was already awake either way, looking at her carefully from under his covers, in the sort of way that she could tell meant he had been awake for hours and had simply chosen not to move. As usual, his room was clean and orderly, but the longer he came to inhabit it, the more evidence of his presence began to appear. His sketchbook sat on the dresser, his few clothes hung in the closet, a book sat on the bedside table, drawings were stuck around the mirror, and the window was decorated with flowers picked from the garden, along with a little bundle of sage hanging down from the sill by a piece of string **to keep the bad spirits away.** The room was his.

Elizabeta smiled as he sat up, and they looked at each other. Arthur smiled back at her, and she could tell that he was pleased; about what was unclear, but that didn't exactly matter. The fact was that Arthur Kirkland, in all his misery, was happy about something and there was something inherently good about that.

She waltzed in; swinging skirts, flower in her hair, eyes sparkling. "Good morning, sweetie, how are you feeling?"

She could already tell how he felt, but she would have liked to hear it come from him anyway. Arthur smiled at her again, holding onto his covers, hair going in all different directions, hardly clothed.

"Good. I am feeling good."

"Well, that's just wonderful," she said, setting out the day's garments onto the foot of the bed for him to change into, laying out the ones that he liked to wear in public, collecting the comb from the dresser and his one and only jacket from where it draped the chair near the desk. It was funny, Arthur having his own desk, and on it were papers and knickknacks, but other than that he hardly used it, far more favouring the desk in the down stairs study, the one that Francis had used to use, but now allowed Arthur to sit at while they sat together. On one hand, Arthur liked the books there. But on the other hand, it was entirely possible that it was because the study was where Francis liked to sit.

"Where's Francis?"

She smiled into her palm as she ran it across her face.

"I'm letting him sleep in for the time being. I'll wake him up when breakfast is ready."

"Oh," he said, looking away from her, "okay."

…

Arthur took a bite of his toast and watched Elizabeta competently whisk the eggs for Francis's breakfast. They didn't talk, somehow knowing it would make the silence between all the things they had to say far worse. The silence was comfortable anyways, and it didn't demand anything like speaking did.

They were going out today, Francis and him, to go shopping and get things for their trip. Apparently the man had pockets like pits and they could hold literally any amount of money; he loved it. And they were going to the market and the shops down in the middle of the city and he was so pleased because he was going to see his family, and more so he was going to do it in nice clothes. He was covered in scars, simply covered, and he was traumatized, could hardly trust anyone or anything, but this… This was… This was _good._

It had been so long since he'd been able to use that word to describe his life and it felt so nice, so wholesome and clean. And yes, in the pit of his stomach there was the horrible sense that something bad was going to happen, something horrible. That he would be betrayed, or hurt, or that Francis wouldn't be the person the he seemed to be, but, but for now, he would bask in this idea, this possibility, and this theory. Because this was good, and he had to hold on to that.

He wasn't going to pretend he wasn't excited. He wanted his family back, he wanted to see them and be held by them and tell them that he was okay. He wasn't naïve; he knew he couldn't stay, but hell, he had thought that he'd be dead within a year. This was more than he'd ever expected.

"Sweetie?"

He looked up from the table.

"We're out of matches," she said pointedly, gesturing towards the stove, "If you don't mind..."

Arthur nodded amicably and stood. He lit the stove with an easy movement that stayed with him not matter how long he went without doing it. Elizabeta smiled at him and he smiled back, slipping into his chair to rest his chin on his hands.

"Good morning darlings."

Francis.

Arthur could tell because Francis was the only member of the household not currently present. But also because the iconic scent of vanilla wafted into the room. Arthur could smell it immediately, before he could see him even. Francis came up from behind him, where he sat with his back to the door, and absentmindedly he put his hand on Arthur shoulder. Arthur didn't flinch, which was nice, and safe, and comforting.

"G'morning," Arthur answered, turning to look up at him. He was dressed in one of his usual, fashionable suits, the one that he usually wore with a nice satin grey tie, but tonight it was the light blue one, the one that brought out his eyes. Arthur liked that one and he liked the fact that he was wearing it.

Francis smiled broadly at him as Elizabeta set his breakfast down on the table and looked at him fondly, but didn't say anything. Francis sat down next to him and asked him how he had slept.

"Fine. I like your pillows."

Francis smiled again. He looked happy and Arthur liked that because when the man was happy his food got better, and considering his food was already the best Arthur had ever had, he was very pleased.

...

Arthur walked like someone who knew where they were going, like somebody with purpose; an idea, an aim, and that was nice because it made Arthur feel like he knew where he was going as well, even though he didn't. They strutted along together, him and Francis, down the cobblestone streets with their noses in the air. This wasn't the area of the city that he preferred; this was the type of city that was filled with respectable shops and very large hats on the heads of very thin women. This had none of the culture he had been raised in, none of the most identifiable features.

 **He missed, by instinct, the ratty kids of street corners, he missed the cracked and battered sidewalks and the skulking figures smoking cigarettes in allies and the inescapable smell of alcohol and smog and lies. And he missed knowing things, knowing to keep his hands in his pockets with his hand wrapped around his money so he wouldn't get pickpocketed, knowing to hunch his shoulders and not to take smokes from strangers, knowing where to get food if he didn't have any work. He missed knowing where all the threats lay and knowing them by instinct alone. His city, the city that he knew, was dangerous, but this place had methods more subtle than death.**

And Francis fitted in exactly like Arthur had expected him to. He was sure that if Francis hadn't been their then there would be an obvious Francis-shaped hole to accommodate his absence; this was the party to which he belonged and at least that was undeniable.

It was in the way that his eyes scraped over every shop window display with pinpoint scrutiny, looking for specific things and not allowing anything else to get in the way. It was in the way that he occasionally brushed his hair behind his shoulders, or slipped his hands in and out of his pockets from when he stood still to when he walked, the way that his sunglasses sat on his hair instead of in front of his eyes. He looked like he belonged, and he made Arthur look like he belonged as well, just by association.

"What about this one?"

Arthur refocused and Francis was looking at him expectantly. Arthur frowned.

 _"Comment suis-je voulais savoir? Je veux juste le déjeuner." How am I meant to know? I just want lunch._ They'd already brought most of what they needed, a traveling cloak, a pair of nice shoes, a bag, and several other things he hardly knew how to use, as well as a leather bound notebook and an inkwell and quill. He didn't know why he needed those things, but apparently he did. And that was fine, but his feet hurt and people kept looking at him like they were going to eat him alive, and that was disturbing. He was hungry and tired of this, and Francis kept gesturing to shops and asking if they were very good and he had none of the patience necessary for that.

 _"Tu as faim?" You're hungry?_ Francis raised his eyebrows and looked at him in surprise.

That wasn't the point, and more specifically, Francis knew it wasn't the point. He knew that Francis wanted to tell him something, wanted to get something off his chest and this, whatever this was, was getting repetitive. All this floundering, all these half formed sentences, and moments where Francis would open him mouth to say something and then close it again.

And Arthur could tell it was something bad, something that Francis didn't want to tell him, some change in the scenario and somebody just needed to tell him because Francis smelt like anxiety, and worry, and it was making him very nervous, because if he was anxious and worried, then that probably meant that there was something for Arthur to feel anxious and worried about as well and as he stood standing on that sidewalk, all he wanted to know was what it was.

Arthur narrowed his eyes dangerously, arms folded over his chest.

 _"Bien sûr, je suis affamé" Of course I'm hungry_ , he said severely. " _We've been walking around for hours even though we've got everything we need, and you keep dodging everything I say even though most of them aren't even questions and this is getting dull, Francis. Whatever it is you need to say, whatever is bothering you, I suggest you just get it over with."_

They were in public, he knew, and more so they were in the sort of public that took careful note of public arguments to gossip about later, but, heck, if Arthur waited until they got home he was going to punch somebody and it was probably going to have to be Francis. He didn't want to punch Francis; he liked Francis the majority of the time, and this was stupid. More importantly, Francis was being stupid and he was over it.

Francis looked at him in surprise, maybe even a little hurt, and Arthur felt bad about that, but he would just have to apologize when this was done. If it did get done. He watched Francis's expression twist, flipping through emotions like one might flip through a picture book, going quickly from hurt, to agitation, to confusion, to distress, and Arthur pushed his eyebrows together and looked at him pleadingly because he'd smelt like anxiety for days now and this needed to end. This really, really needed to end.

Francis stared at him, folded his arms, hunched his shoulders, and looked him dead in the eye, his internal turmoil nearly bursting out of his head with its clarity, and Arthur didn't back down because of course he didn't. He would fight until someone told him the truth, internal turmoil or otherwise.

Francis opened his mouth to speak, and Arthur waited impenitently as he closed it again, as if he had found some mistake it what he had been trying to say and needed to rephrase it. Arthur didn't look at him desperately, didn't push his eyebrows together and look up at him, pleading, he looked at him like stone. Like it wasn't possible for him to be argued with.

Francis looked at him imploring and Arthur narrowed his eyes.

 _"_ _Regardez, nous ne pouvons pas simplement attendre jusqu'à ce que nous arrivons à la maison ?_ _"_ _Look, can't we just wait until we get home?_

 _"_ _Non." No._ Arthur answered immediately, unyielding as he was, because he had to be unyielding, if he yielded he'd never get anything done. Whatever it was, Francis didn't want to say it in public, and that was fine, but if they waited until they were back home, Francis would make an excuse, because he always made excuses, always jumped around topics no mater how important they were.

Francis looked at him with his face all screwed up, a thousand expressions at once all fighting for his face.

"While we're young, Francis," Arthur suggested firmly.

"I…" he stared, but then he stoped, and Arthur wondered if they were going to have to do all of this again. But then he drew himself closer to Arthur, taking a hold of Arthur's elbow and speaking as silently as he could as to not be heard by an of the other pedestrians. "I… I favour men. Romantically." He looked down and avoided Arthur's searching eyes.

There was a long pause and Arthur looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together, smelling a spike in Francis' fear as he said the words. Arthur blinked softly, and somewhere in the back of his head it registered and the relief set in.

"That's it? I thought you were going to say that you're dying? Whoa, okay," he ran his hand through his hair. "Never mind."

Francis blinked at him.

"It doesn't bother you?"

Arthur smirked casually at him, feeling a lot better now that Francis was actually talking to him.

"Francis, I come from one of the most accepting cultures known to man. You don't need to worry about me."

And he smiled at Francis, and Francis looked at him for a moment, before he grinned back.


End file.
